


Escaping Fate

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: You're Broken and He's Beautiful [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You try to move on from everything that's happened. But with Moriarty constantly lurking in the background will you be able to embrace the future as much as you want to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thank you so much for all of your support! I really appreciate it! :) 
> 
> I hope that you'll enjoy this the fourth part of the You're Broken and He's Beautiful series. :)

Summer seems to come quickly that year. You let out a bit of a lazy sigh and stretch, feeling oddly carefree and relaxed as you sit underneath a tree that’s close to the Holmes cottage with a book in your hands. You've been staying there for three weeks. In that time you've found yourself slowly unwinding, your shoulders getting looser and your mind becoming more rested. You've even had fewer nightmares. 

 

Mycroft comes towards you on the path, his eyes brightening as he sees you. When you’d first arrived there after once again going to Brighton to visit your parents graves he’d once more been a little hesitant about letting you wander off on your own. You’d reached a compromise in the first week with you promising that you’d tell him exactly where you were going and roughly how long you’d intended to be as long as he let you go. 

 

He flops down beside you and you put your book to one side, before you turn and kiss him deeply. Your bodies come closer together, one of your hands gripping onto his shoulder as he kisses you back gently, before he becomes more insistent with you, cupping your face with one hand. 

 

You pull away from each other a moment later. Mycroft lets out a happy sigh as you snuggle down against him and rest your head against his shoulder. He puts an arm around you. 

 

“Reading the same as yesterday?” he asks. 

 

“Mmm, I'm getting close to the middle now,” you reply, before you both shift so that you’re sitting in between his legs and resting your head against his chest. Your hands come up to grasp at his hands as they go to encircle your waist. “It’s funny,” you muse, “I was thinking about this today. I used to read to escape, but now I read just for fun.”

 

“Well I for one feel a lot happier about that,” Mycroft murmurs, running a hand through your hair. You smile. “Want me to read a little bit to you?” he asks. 

 

You nod, trying to be casual about it but your heart gives a little leap of pleasure. The little moments between Mycroft and you have become your favourite thing about the summer, each one something wonderful for you to treasure. 

 

He picks up the book with a smile, his heart flipping over in anticipation. He begins to read. 

 

You close your eyes, your mind lost to all of your senses. His voice descends into your soul as much as your body sinks into his. The warmth of the sunshine caresses your face, whilst the short blades of grass tickle your legs. You've never felt so much at peace before. 

 

The day drifts by, as light and soft as a butterfly’s wings. Everything’s fine. 

 

Mycroft and you walk back to the cottage late that afternoon, after Mycroft’s nearly sent himself hoarse by reading so much to you, you've nearly fallen asleep from the tranquillity of it all and several exchanged kisses. You had to stop him reading in the end. You can’t see the red mark that had been on his throat any more, but as his voice had grown weaker you’d been reminded of that day, of the fragility of it all, the fragility of _him_ , so you’d stopped him before he could wear his voice out. He’d smiled, taken your hand, whilst he carried the book in his other and got up. Now you walk back through the grass together and onto the path. 

 

The cottage comes into view a few moments later, and as soon as you enter it via the back door Violet turns towards you both with a beam, “Dears you’re just in time to help me with dinner,” she says. 

 

Mycroft and you exchange a smile, because this has become something of a tradition-you both getting roped in to help, whilst Sherlock steers clear. Oddly enough though neither of you minds the youngest Holmes brother’s absence. In fact you've got a distinct feeling that Mycroft prefers it. 

 

*

 

You’re sitting in the living room with everyone after dinner when Mycroft gets a phone call. He looks down at the number that’s appeared on his screen with a furrowed brow, before he answers it. He gets up just a moment later and leaves the room. You frown. Sherlock and you exchange a glance. Mycroft’s parents look a little concerned. Your hands fidget as you listen to the soft hum of Mycroft’s voice in the background. You can’t help but worry. Your mind instantly goes to Moriarty. His face forms in your head. You try and shake it off. You've been doing well lately. Too well to let yourself become irrationally worried now. Especially when there might not be something to be worried about in the first place. You swallow. Then you see that Violet’s watching you so you try and give her a smile. It comes out as a tentative one and her eyes narrow. You swallow.

 

“You wouldn't happen to know what that phone call would be about would you F/N?” she asks. You open your mouth. “That man, at the university, he hasn't got in touch with you again has he? Because I know that both my Mykie and you are adults dear, but I think it would be sensible of you to tell us if there’s a problem next time instead of trying to deal with it by yourselves.”

 

“You’re jumping to conclusions Mummy. F/N hasn't even seen that man for a year, and hopefully that’s the way it’s going to stay,” Sherlock says, looking up from where he’s been piecing something together on the floor on top of some newspaper. You look at him gratefully, but Sherlock’s eyes just go to his mother’s briefly, before he looks down again.

 

Violet’s eyes fix on her son for a moment, before they go to you. “I'm not trying to be rude dear, or make you feel pressurized into telling us everything. I know people your age like to keep things close,” she hesitates, “But everything’s all right isn't it? I was a little surprised when Mykie told us that you’d stopped your sessions with Dr. Magnussen”-

 

“As my brother and I have told you countless times Mummy, Dr. Magnussen’s methods weren't really working for F/N. She felt as if it would be more beneficial to just try and concentrate on building up happier memories than dwelling on the painful ones of her past,” Sherlock says. You look at him a little strangely, thinking that the last thing he’d said sounded exactly the way it would have had Mycroft said it. You wonder now if Mycroft had put it precisely that way when he’d talked to him after that day in the clinic. You suspect that he had. 

 

“I'm sure that F/N is more than capable of telling me about the situation herself Sherlock,” Violet tells her son a little sternly, before she looks at you again. “Now if it’s an issue of cost dear then Edwin and I would be more than happy to”-

 

“That’s very kind of you Mrs. Holmes, er Violet,” you interrupt her, “But Sherlock’s right. There’s nothing strange going on. I just thought that it might be better if I tried to live rather than focus so much on what’s gone on before. Now that I’ve learnt to become a little more open I think it’s probably the best thing for me.”

 

Violet looks at you steadily for another moment. Your heart thumps in your chest as she does so. You don’t want her to think that you’re lying or for things to become awkward between you again. Finally she nods and looks away. You let out a tiny breath. Suddenly you become aware that you can’t hear the low thrum of Mycroft’s voice in the background any more. He must have got off the phone but for some reason not come back into the room. You frown and something writhes in your stomach, making you feel all the more anxious. Sherlock glances up at you and studies you for a moment, before he looks back down. 

 

You get up. Violet looks at you. “I, erm, I'm just popping to the loo,” you say. She nods. 

 

You depart hurriedly, but you don’t go to the bathroom. Instead you go towards the kitchen where you sense that Mycroft might be. 

 

You stop at the door. He’s sitting at the kitchen table facing you, his expression serious, whilst he rests his head upon his hand. You clear your throat and his eyes flicker, before they latch onto you. He lifts his head up as he lowers his hand, looking somehow both pleased to see you as he always does and apprehensive. 

 

You swallow and take a step forwards. “Is everything all right?” you ask. He swallows and looks away from you for a moment. He’s obviously not sure how to tell you so you begin, “Who was it?” 

 

“The university,” he says, before he swallows again and shifts his position, “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, trying to sound as casual as you can as you sit down opposite him, before you grab at his hand. 

 

He just watches the way that your fingers tangle together for a moment, before he breathes; “They want me to do some work experience after Christmas in the government up until Easter. They think I have a good skill-set and that I might be able to do some excellent work for them. I’d do the remainder of my exams in the summer term if I took it up.”

 

“Well that’s good isn't it?” you ask as you digest the news. “If it might lead onto a proper job as well.”

 

He bites at his lip, his fingers shifting against yours. “It would mean that I’d be away from you,” he reveals, looking up now. You let out a little breath. “I’d have to go and find a little flat or something. It wouldn't be practical for me to travel there every day from the university.” He swallows. 

 

Your heart sinks a little; you don’t like the idea of being away from him. But at the same time you know that it’s right too. “We’d work something out,” you tell him, stroking at his hand, “We could still spend weekends together unless something comes up and we could phone and text each other all the time. We could even Skype each other in the week unless you’re busy.” He still doesn’t look convinced so you add, “Besides, it might be a good thing to get your own place now. You’d have to after this year anyway, so it saves you doing it later”-

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath, cutting you off, and you watch as he tugs his hand away from yours, before he runs it through his hair. He buries his head in his hands. 

 

“Myc?” you ask. 

 

He draws his head back, looks at you momentarily, huffs out another breath and conceals his head in his hands again. 

 

You let him have his own space for a moment. 

 

His fingers shift against his face, letting one of his eyes peep out at you. He sighs against his hands and then pulls them away. “I'm not going,” he announces. 

 

 _“What?”_ you exclaim, feeling completely taken aback, “Myc you”-

 

“F/N, it’s all very well for you to say that we’ll be able to manage but it’ll still be difficult. You’ll be writing your dissertation and I’ll be doing God knows what,” he pauses, “Besides, I’d miss you,” he says earnestly, stealing your hand away again, “I don’t want to be away from you for that long.”

 

“I don’t want to be away from you _either_ ,” you tell him, your heart softening, “But Myc this is important, this is about your _future_ ,” you push, trying to get through to him now. He still looks uncertain. You get up and go to his side. He swings around to face you as you kneel down. You clutch at his hand. “You could get a job out of this and that’s what we’ll all be needing in the future,” you say, before you take a bit of a breath. “In a year’s time you could, if you enjoy it and feel like that’s what you want to do, be working for the government and I could be looking for something for myself, Greg could be in with the police, Molly and John studying just as hard as ever and Sherlock, well Sherlock could be doing whatever Sherlock ends up doing”- Mycroft lets out a bit of a watery chuckle at that and you smile at him-“But that won’t completely be the case and you won’t be doing right by yourself if you don’t take this chance,” you finish, staring at him seriously. 

 

“But what’s to say that it’s a genuine chance anyway?” he asks, his mind getting carried away, “What’s to say that Moriarty or someone haven’t made it happen to get me out of the way so that Moriarty can”-

 

“Myc, I don’t think even _Moriarty_ has that kind of power. I know that your mind’s probably thinking about what happened with Moran but not everything’s a trap. It sounded genuine enough on the phone didn't it?” Mycroft nods. “There we go then,” you carry on, thinking that he’s just letting his feelings for you create doubts in his mind. “Besides we can’t be hesitant any more. Haven’t I been trying to tell you ever since that day in the clinic that we've got to try and live our lives to the full? That we can’t just stop them or put them on hold any more because of him?” You pause and take a breath. You squeeze at his hand. “Didn't I say, that first night at the hotel, after we’d told each other our feelings for the first time and after the nightmare, that I was going to dream about something happy?” Mycroft nods. “But it’s not enough just to dream any more. The future with or without Moriarty’s interference is coming and we've got to live it. And I refuse to let you not do anything about this opportunity just because of him, I refuse it,” you tell him firmly. 

 

Mycroft smiles and looks at you, before he goes on equally as fervently as you’d done, “But if he sees that I'm gone then he’s bound to try and do something. I can’t have him hurting you again, I promised, I _promised_ that I wouldn't let him”-

 

“But maybe he won’t,” you say, before you go on, “Even if he does I’ve got Greg, Molly, John and Sherlock all there looking out for me.” You can tell that he still has doubts just by looking at him. “Stand up,” you sigh, before you do so yourself. He hesitates, before he does so. “Mycroft Holmes,” you say, putting your hands on his shoulders and he smiles a little warily at you, “You are so, _so_ smart, and you have been working so hard and dealing with so much-more than you ever should have-and you are not going to let the fact that maybe Moriarty might come back onto the scene, whilst you’re gone, stop you from taking this opportunity. You hear me?”

 

He stares down at your determined face for a moment. Then he nods, before he lets out a little breath. You hug him. “I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs, pushing his head down close to yours as he rests one hand on your back, whilst the other loosely clutches onto your waist. 

 

“You won’t,” you reply quickly, “This is just you doing something positive for your future, all right?” 

 

Mycroft nods and you hold onto each other for another moment. 

 

“I suppose we better go and tell the others,” Mycroft says, pulling away from you. 

 

You nod. 

 

Mycroft’s parents are understandably pleased and excited about the news. Violet in particular seems excited at the thought that she might one day be able to tell people that her son works for the government. You can see though that Sherlock’s mind lands on the same possibility that Mycroft’s had done, and as you see him thinking hard you wonder if he’s coming up with another plan. Perhaps one to turn to should Moriarty step back into your lives when Mycroft’s away. You sigh a little as you wish that you could just get those Holmes boys to stop worrying about the future and enjoy the present, even if it does make you feel more secure and even though you’re not particularly great at not worrying yourself…

 

*

 

You get a text that night. _Send my congratulations to Mycroft,_ it says. You've been getting sporadic ones from Moriarty ever since the night after that day in the clinic. The first time it had quite naturally freaked you out, but at the same time you’d had enough self-control to not mention it to Mycroft or anyone else. Maybe because you’d known that if you had then it would have only made Mycroft worry and not only that, but after just coming through the event at the clinic and deciding to be strong about it all you'd had absolutely no desire to give up on that so quickly. No desire to just go back to worrying and succumbing to fear again. You’re still not ready, so even though you’re once again left wondering how Moriarty knows such a thing so soon and left wondering if he’s planted cameras or bugs in the cottage- something you've already tried to find out-you don’t text Moriarty back. Instead you put your phone aside on the bedside cabinet, snuggle down into your bed and try and focus on everything good that’s happened that day. 

 

*

 

Mycroft phones to accept the work experience placement the following day. The people in the office want him to go to London in a week’s time so that they can have a chat with him and show him around. 

 

“It’ll be odd staying here, whilst you’re there,” you say once he’s told you, trying to just sound like you’re making an observation rather than letting him into the slight pang of sadness you feel at the prospect of not being around him. 

 

He shoots you a bit of an odd look from the armchair. “You’ll be coming with me,” he says, before at your puzzled expression he explains, “I cleared it with Mummy. We’ll be staying at the house in town. She seemed to agree that it would be a good idea for me to have company, and well”- he breaks off, looking suddenly rather bashful. 

 

“You’d miss me?” you ask him hopefully. 

 

“Mm,” he says, looking down at his knees with a bit of a blush on his face. 

 

You feel delighted. 

 

*

 

The following week goes by quickly, and it’s not long before you find yourself saying goodbye to Violet and piling in a car with Mycroft and his father, who’s kindly taking you both to the station. 

 

You've just sat down on the train when your phone buzzes. _Onwards to London town_ , the text reads. You start a little and look around. Surely Moriarty can’t be in the vicinity? 

 

“Everything all right?” Mycroft asks, picking up on your behaviour. 

 

You force yourself to relax a little from where you've been craning your neck so that you could get a good look around and shift your gaze to him. “Yeah,” you say, your face becoming less creased as you think that Moriarty’s probably just got someone following you, and whilst the thought isn't pleasant it’s a far more attractive one than actually having Moriarty there himself. “Just feeling a little more peckish than I realized.”

 

“Open the sweets then,” Mycroft says, nudging the sweets that you’d bought, whilst you were waiting towards you. 

 

“Mm,” you say, before you open the multicoloured bag with a small pop. 

 

Mycroft smiles at you, before he quickly looks around himself. 

 

“It’s fine,” you say, passing him a sweet and knowing that he’s probably worrying despite what you’d just told him. 

 

“Mm,” Mycroft says a little distractedly with his tongue pushed against the side of his mouth, before he looks back and takes the sweet from you. 

 

You share a smile, but you can tell that worry is still lingering at the back of both of your minds.

 

*

 

Stepping inside the town house is an exciting moment for you. Going to the cottage is nice, and of course it had been both exciting and interesting the first time you’d gone there to see how it was decorated and such, but this is where the Holmes family live ninety per-cent of the time. This is where Mycroft got lost inside his head as a little boy and where Sherlock probably did his first experiment. 

 

It’s a big house-three storeys-in the middle of the street with houses of the same stature surrounding it and standing opposite. 

 

As you go in there’s a small hallway. A soft purple welcoming mat lies just behind the door and you wipe your feet on it. 

 

“Should I take my shoes off?” you ask. 

 

“No it’s fine,” Mycroft says, before he smiles at you and grabs your hand. You look at each other, both feeling eager. 

 

The floor further along is wooden, whilst doors lead off either side. You can see a slither of the large open-plan kitchen at the back; whilst a staircase covered in a deep purple carpet lays off to the left. Several frames that contain photos of both Mycroft and Sherlock as they’d grown up join the grey wallpaper that runs up alongside the stairs. You step towards them, wanting to take a closer look. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and pulls you back with his hand. “Maybe in a minute,” he says, “I want to show you the downstairs first.”

 

You grin a little at his clear embarrassment. He smiles a little sheepishly back at you. Then you let him tug you forwards by the hand and lead you around. 

 

As you go around you realize that the house is a mixture of both the traditional and the modern. There’s a very old fashioned dining room close to the stairs that has a long wooden table and paintings furnishing the walls. Mycroft tells you a little embarrassedly that his parents have held many dinner parties in it throughout the years. 

 

“What were you doing, whilst they did that?” you ask. 

 

“Trying to baby-sit Sherlock,” he smiles wryly and you grin at the thought. He kisses you quickly. 

 

The kitchen though is the epitome of modern. All sleek and white with a breakfast bar and a small table. “It used to be quite old-fashioned,” Mycroft tells you, and based on the dining room you can imagine, “But Mummy wanted it done a few years ago, so”- he breaks off and waves a hand. You get the sudden feeling that Mycroft prefers the parts of the house that are more old-fashioned and something about that knowledge makes you smile. 

 

After taking you to the living room, which is cosy and vibrant with its maroon coloured settee, armchair, footrest and pale lilac walls he takes you back to the stairs. 

 

“Do I get to see the photos now?” you smile. Mycroft nods, but you’re still the one leading him forwards towards them. You let go of his hand as you begin to climb the stairs. The first one is of a baby on his stomach wrapped in a white, swaddling cloth and whose cheeks looks a little chubby as he smiles widely at the camera. His tiny bit of auburn hair flops cutely against his forehead as his familiar blue eyes stare at you. “Oh Myc”- you coo. 

 

“Yes, just go past that one,” Mycroft says hurriedly, attempting to push you gently further upstairs. 

 

“But you look _so_ cute,” you protest, twisting around to look at him. “I'm only teasing,” you add when you see that his cheeks are aflame with colour and he can barely look at you. 

 

He nods, but you’re sure that you catch him muttering something darkly about how he wishes Mummy had pulled that photo down long ago as you move onto the next. 

 

That one shows a young Mycroft staring down at his baby brother as he cradles him gently in his arms. You can see part of Violet’s arm too, her hand and forearm just coming into shot as she keeps a protective eye on things. Both of the brother’s look so young and innocent and comfortable with each other. Mycroft looks as if he’s decided to protect his brother for all eternity, whilst Sherlock looks so snug as he lies there fast asleep. It makes something both soften and quiver inside you. A tear escapes you, slipping down to your cheek without you being able to help it. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft asks concernedly. 

 

“Sorry,” you say, turning to him, “It’s just that I love both of you so much and”-

 

“In different ways I hope,” Mycroft says, leaning up so that he can bop you gently on the nose. 

 

You let out a watery chuckle and he moves up so that he’s standing on the same step as you. He hugs you. “It’ll be all right,” he says, kissing your hair softly. 

 

You nod, before you lean up so that you can gently kiss him on the lips. “I'm trying not to, but I just worry,” you tell him as you pull away from him. 

 

“Me too,” he confesses, and you smile a little, knowing that he understands. 

 

He smiles tentatively back at you, before he moves past you, takes your hand again and continues to lead you upstairs. 

 

Moving upstairs is like walking through a scrapbook. Mycroft and Sherlock get continually older until you’re looking at a photo that had been taken just before they’d left for their first year of university. Sherlock definitely doesn’t look as comfortable to be standing next to his big brother as he once had. He’s got his arms folded and though he’s looking at the camera-no doubt Violet had forced him to-he’s pouting. You smile. Then you look at Mycroft. You feel a pull of something in your heart as you do so. He’s clearly aware of the fact that Sherlock doesn’t want to be photographed with him and it shows in the way that he’s smiling but in a strained way, his hands down by his side and his fingers slightly bent though not quite curled. He’s clearly feeling both tense and nervous, and even though it’s just a photograph you feel like you want to reassure him. You raise your free hand. You hear Mycroft’s breath hitch in his chest but you ignore him. Slowly you place a delicate finger on the glass, before you slide it gradually down the photo Mycroft’s chest.

 

“F/N,” present Mycroft blurts out. 

 

“Sorry,” you say, your finger jerking back off the glass as you come out of your daze and turn to him. “I-I’ll clean it, if-if its left a mark.” You look back to the glass. But there’s no trace of a mark. You let out a bit of a breath and look back to him. He lets out a whoosh of breath. Then he steps down so that he’s on the same level as you and kisses you. It’s like everything inside you comes alive. You’re aware of every gentle but insistent press of his body against yours. Aware of his hands on your waist and the way that warmth seeps through to your skin because of them. Aware of the way that his lips nip, making you let out little breaths and noises as your hands support his back. He pulls away from you. Both of your heads are spinning and Mycroft in particular looks very flushed. You feel like you might fall if he lets go of you. You've never been kissed like that before. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, looking suddenly quite embarrassed about what had just come over him, “I just”-

 

“It’s okay,” you say, feeling as your head calms down like you both want more and want to know what had made him do it in the first place. 

 

He swallows and smiles at you a little awkwardly, “Right um, I guess I’ll show you to your room then,” he says as you both finish going upstairs. 

 

He points out where both his parents and Sherlock’s rooms are, but he seems to be less of an enthusiastic tour guide now and more in his head. You frown at him, wondering what’s going on. But he just gives you a quick, distracted smile, before he leads you up to the next floor. 

 

He heads towards a room that’s off to the left, stopping at the door, before he indicates that you should step inside first. 

 

You look at him for one moment and then push the door open. 

 

Clear light pours through the window, bringing everything into a sharp focus. The room’s spacious, bigger than the bedroom you've been staying in at the cottage. A tall wooden wardrobe along with a set of drawers stands to the right; a desk that contains scattered papers on top of it overlooks the window, whilst two small wooden bookshelves stand either side of it. A double bed takes up most of the middle space; its headboard resting against the far wall, whilst a bedside cabinet that has a lamp and a book upon it sits to the left side of the bed. Everything has its place and is neat and tidy. Not one poster or piece of blu-tack stains the white walls. You glance at Mycroft who’s looking at you rather apprehensively. “Is this”- you begin. 

 

“My room,” he nods, “It’s er, not as tidy as I’d like, hang on a minute.” You raise an eyebrow at him. 

 

When he marches across to the bedside cabinet, swipes the book up and takes it over to one of the bookshelves, before he begins to gather up the papers on his desk into a more orderly pile, you say, “Myc, it’s fine, I don’t want you to move anything because of me.” His fingers still on the pile and he turns back to you, looking a little nervous. Once more you feel as if you’re missing something. “Is everything”-

 

“Right, well, there should be some space free in the wardrobe for you, just push some clothes aside if there isn't, here I’ll check,” he reels out hurriedly, before he marches across and tugs the wardrobe door open. 

 

You don't understand. “Myc,” you say, going towards him now. He pushes some of the clothes aside hurriedly and the hangers let out a bit of a squeak as they grate against each other, before he closes the door with a snap and whirls around. His back presses against it as he looks at you. You frown as you study him. His face is slightly flushed and blotchy, his eyes are wide and he’s breathing quickly as his hands splay out against the door. He looks like he’s coming down with a fever. “Myc, what”- you begin, stepping even closer to him, but you soon break off when he pushes further back against the wardrobe, causing it to rattle. Your mouth flutters open and shut for a moment. You feel a little hurt. “Have-have I done something?” you ask. 

 

“No, not at all,” he says, peeling himself off the wardrobe, before he gives your shoulders the lightest of reassuring touches. Again you look at him oddly, which perhaps encourages him to say, “I er, just want everything to be right for you, but if it is then I er…I’ll leave you to unpack for a moment. I’ll go and put my things in Sherlock’s room, I’ll be staying there”-

 

 _“Oh,”_ you interject, unable to help but feel a little disappointed. 

 

“Mm,” Mycroft says, running a flustered hand back through his hair, “Perhaps I could make us both a nice cup of tea?”

 

“That sounds great,” you say, before you attempt to smile at him and Mycroft’s face falters. 

 

You don’t look at him any more, you just keep your head off to the side until he clears his throat a little and hurriedly leaves the room. You put the small bag that you’d brought with you down by the bed and wander across to the window, feeling confused. The room’s right at the top of the house, alone apart from another room that’s just across the hallway. The view, whilst not amazing is still pretty nice. You can see the top of the house opposite and peer down at the progress of everyone who’s making their way down the pavement and across the road. You only glance and appreciate those things briefly though, before your mind goes back to Mycroft’s strange behaviour. You don’t understand it. He’d seemed fine until you’d made it up to the first floor. Not only are you confused, but also you can’t help but feel a little disappointed that you won’t be sharing a room. Something which both makes sense to you and doesn’t. For yes you've always loved having Mycroft close to you-especially at night when you can’t stop the darkness from creeping in-but by the same token, after what’s happened in the past with you first hitting Mycroft when you’d thought him Moriarty and then freaking out is it really something that you should be wanting to try again? Your reactions both times haven’t probably encouraged him to want to do such a thing either. You sigh. Then you turn away and go to unpack the little that you've brought with you, your mind still arguing with itself about whether it’s logically a good idea for you to try and share a bed again. 

 

*

 

As soon as Mycroft lets himself into Sherlock’s room he closes the door behind him and huffs out a breath. He knows that he’d messed things up with you just now, and he instantly feels guilty, before he wonders what you must be thinking of him. He huffs out another breath. Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Gregory. 

 

“Hey Mycroft what’s up?” Gregory says as soon as he picks up. 

 

“Gregory…I…ah,” Mycroft says, for he’d acted so automatically that now he has someone at the other end to talk to he’s not sure where to begin. He runs his free hand a little awkwardly against his trousers.

 

“Mycroft what is it? What’s wrong? Is F/N”- Gregory begins, sounding anxious. 

 

“Listen,” Mycroft says, getting control of himself again, “I know I’ve been trying not to ask you about things, to try and give you more space so that Molly and you could”-

 

“Mycroft what is it?” Gregory interrupts. 

 

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “You remember that I told you about F/N and I coming to London?”- he begins. 

 

“Yeah, and Molly and I said that we’d love to meet up with you,” Gregory replies cautiously. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft goes on, “We’re staying in the house where my family usually live”- 

 

“Ha, I knew it,” Gregory cuts in and Mycroft’s brow furrows. “Sorry,” Gregory says a moment later, “It’s just that Molly owes me a fiver.”

 

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asks. 

 

“Yeah, erm,” Gregory begins a little awkwardly, and Mycroft can visualize him running a hand back through his hair. “We, er, sort of had a bet on about whether you’d phone me for advice once you got there and everything hit home for you. I thought you would, but Molly had more faith in you.”

 

“Give her my thanks,” Mycroft says dryly and Gregory lets out a little embarrassed bark of laughter, before Mycroft challenges, “In that case then, if you already know what I'm about to say what would be your advice?”

 

“Well,” Gregory begins, “If I'm right then it’s about the fact that you’re going to be in the house alone together for a few days isn't it?”

 

Mycroft makes a sound of agreement, before he tries to elaborate, “I kissed her earlier, and for a moment I…”

 

“Wanted to take things further?” Gregory asks knowingly when Mycroft trails off. 

 

“I…well, I wanted to kiss her harder than I’ve ever done, but then it was as if I became suddenly aware of how alone we were and how nothing was stopping us and how, well how _wrong_ that would be”-

 

“Wrong?” Gregory interrupts with a frown.

 

“Well I shouldn't be having those type of thoughts,” Mycroft explains, “She’s still”-

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Gregory begins incredulously, “Just because F/N’s had some very dark things happen in her life means that you shouldn't be wanting to show her love now?”-

 

“No, I, yes, _yes_ ,” Mycroft says, clearly confused, before he goes on a little darkly, “Not _that_ sort of love anyway, she’s not ready”-

 

“How do you know?” Gregory prompts, “Have you asked her?”

 

“No, but”- Mycroft begins, before he breaks off when he hears a creak on the stairs and glances over his shoulder. Then when he doesn’t hear anything else he turns back to face the front and goes on in a low hiss, “After what she’s been through”-

 

“Mate that just means you might need to be gentle, that means she doesn’t want Moriarty doing that to her again, not you, she loves you”-

 

_“I”-_

 

“You’re not going to break her,” Gregory tells him firmly, before he asks, “She’s been stronger lately hasn't she?”

 

Mycroft pulls a bit of a face because such a thing is complicated to explain. “Yes,” he finally says, “But she still worries, she still”-

 

“Mate of course, of course she does. That’s only natural, human. We _all_ worry,” Gregory soothes. A long silence follows his words. Gregory can tell that Mycroft’s still perplexed and trying to work it all out. “Is this really just about F/N?” he asks. 

 

There comes another pause and a bit of a sigh. “I-I don’t know how, “ Mycroft manages, before he breaks off helplessly, “I mean I know how, I just don’t know _how…”_

 

“Right,” Gregory says, and he knows that Mycroft’s face must be a fierce red, both with his embarrassment and frustration. “Well, I mean, not even _I_ can tell you that, that’s something that you’ll both have to work out together,” Gregory says, and he hears Mycroft let out another sigh. “But for now I think you should just take things slow and talk to her about it”-

 

“I can’t do that, she’ll think I”- Mycroft says at once, before he breaks off. 

 

Gregory lets out a bit of a breath, “Listen mate, I'm just saying that to me, the way you've put things, it sounds like you don’t know what F/N wants. Not really, so I think, on that basis, you should just breach the issue.” Mycroft lets out a breath and Gregory can tell that he’s about to protest. He quickly goes on, “It doesn’t have to be really bluntly or anything like that, just say something like now you’re together again you thought it might be useful to know how far you can take things right now without making her uncomfortable”-

 

“I don’t want her to feel any pressure,” Mycroft says quickly, before he huffs out a breath and says, “You’re probably right though, I should probably say something.” 

 

They get off the phone to each other a moment later and Mycroft unpacks his things quickly, wincing at the mess in Sherlock’s room that he has to clamber over as he walks about and taking particular care to hang up the clothes he’ll be using the following day in a neat fashion, before he hurries downstairs. 

 

You’re in the kitchen drinking the tea that he should have made for you. “I hope it was all right that I just went ahead and”- you break off, waving a bit of a flustered hand.

 

“Yes of course, I want you to make yourself at home here. Sorry I just”- Mycroft breaks off, pushing his hair back from his forehead now. 

 

“Is everything all right?” you ask as he comes across to make his own tea. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” Mycroft nods distractedly, his fingers a little clumsy as he pours the boiling water from the kettle into the cup. 

 

You stare at him, not believing him for a moment. 

 

You try and encourage further conversation from him when you pop out to do a little food shopping later on, and then when you go on to make dinner and eat, but he’s quiet, only saying a few polite words to you. You hate it and when his behaviour persists as you sit together in the living room you end up kissing him quickly on the cheek, before you tell him that you’re going to head up and get an early night. You can’t bear the fact that you’re sitting so close to him but you feel so far apart any longer. You hear him letting out a sigh just after you leave the room. 

 

*

 

Once you’re in bed you can’t sleep though, you just find yourself tossing and turning. Maybe Mycroft’s nervous for the following day, you tell yourself. Realistically he’s bound to be, so maybe it’s nothing to do with you after all. Or maybe you should have just tried to talk to him about it, instead of following his lead. But even as you think about such things you know that it has to be more than that. He’d been acting so odd around you after all. You let out a breath as you roll over onto your back. The bed seems so vast and empty. You can’t help but think, not for the first time, that it’s a little stupid that you’re not sharing a room. You've got the whole house to yourself, you’re boyfriend and girlfriend, would it really be so odd to just share a bed and hold each other? You sit up. Your mind is half-torn between trying to sleep some more and going to Mycroft and telling him how silly you think this all is. Maybe he thinks it’s silly too. Maybe he’s just being a gentleman about it all. Maybe he was just waiting for you to protest earlier and to tell him how you’d felt then. That would be so like him you think, before you swing out of bed. You pad out of the room and go downstairs. But as soon as the door that you know that Mycroft’s trying to sleep behind comes into view you feel suddenly anxious and uncertain. Maybe you should just go down to the kitchen and get yourself a hot drink. You can tell Mycroft how you feel in the morning after all. You turn away, but then something comes over you. After all you’re the one whose been saying that you want to live your life and make the most of it, and going to the kitchen now and avoiding the issue is not the person you’re trying to be. You turn around. You let out a little breath and march over to the room where Mycroft is, before you push the door open. You stand there just blinking for a moment. The dim light that comes from the hallway helps you to pick out the lumpy shape that’s underneath the duvet. You hesitate, afraid now you’re here of waking him. But as it happens the shape shifts a moment later and you watch in fascination as it turns into your boyfriend who switches the bedside lamp on. 

 

“F/N?” he asks, sitting up in bed as he wears his usual vest and looks at you. 

 

“Sorry if I woke you”- you say, before you break off as Mycroft waves a hand. 

 

“It’s okay, I hadn't dropped off yet,” he says, looking more alert, “Is something wrong? The _bed_ ”-

 

You huff out a breath and run a frustrated hand back through your hair. “Don’t you think this is silly?” you ask. He just stares at you. “We’re in this big house, we’re together, and we can’t even”-

 

“I thought,” Mycroft begins, his hands fidgeting over the top of the duvet, “That, that was what was going to happen, that we’d share a bed. If you had no objection of course”-you frown, feeling all the more confused-“But then I thought”-he shifts his position, whilst he looks down, “That after what happened earlier maybe you, or maybe _I_ …well I thought that it might not be the right thing to do, not whilst we were in the house alone together,” he confesses, looking up at you. 

 

You tilt your head and frown at him for a moment, biting at your lip as you try to figure things out. “But you wanted it to happen?” you ask, because you feel sure that, that’s the message you’re getting underneath Mycroft’s words. 

 

He nods, “I just didn't want to do anything to”-

 

“Then maybe you should have just talked to me about it?” you interrupt. 

 

He nods, looking a little ashamed of himself. “That’s what Gregory said,” he says. 

 

You have to smile a little at the fact that he’s been going to Greg for guidance. At least he’s been getting it all out to someone. “That Greg gives good advice,” you say, before you come a little closer to the bed, “So is it all right if”- you begin a little more uncertainly, before you break off when Mycroft jumps out of bed. You find it difficult not to look at his legs. 

 

“We er, we should probably go to mine. I’ve already had to pull a number of unsightly things out of Sherlock’s bed to make it habitable. You never know though…” Mycroft trails off uncertainly. 

 

You nod, smiling a little again. “That’s not to mention the fact that he’d no doubt have nightmares for weeks if we were to share his bed,” you joke.

 

“Quite,” Mycroft agrees as a pink blush runs over the middle of his face and the bridge of his nose. He takes your hand and you both swallow a little, the heat going to your face immediately. “Erm,” Mycroft says. 

 

Sensing that he’s not able to take the lead right you do so instead, switching off the lamp and tugging him gently forwards, before you lead him out and upstairs. You let go of his hand once you reach his room. Then slowly you each go to a side of the bed and slip underneath the duvet together. 

 

Mycroft shifts across and you turn your back to him, smiling as he wraps his arms around you. Finally you’re falling asleep in the exact position you wanted to. 

 

*

 

Waking up that morning is heavenly, despite the early time. Mycroft’s arms slowly withdraw from where they've been around you all night and you roll over sleepily to face him. He kisses you on the forehead. 

 

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” you hum, feeling tired but happy when you realize that you didn't have any nightmares last night. “What time do you have to be there?” you ask, before you yawn loudly despite trying to suppress it. Mycroft looks at you adoringly.

 

“Two and a half hours,” he says, slipping back into business mode, before he gets out of bed. “But I’ve got to take the Underground so I hope there’s no problems.”

 

“Want me to walk you to the station?” you ask. 

 

He shakes his head. “You stay here, try and get some more sleep. You look like you could do with it,” he says softly, before he leans back and presses another kiss to your forehead. You can’t know how beautiful you look to him in that moment with your hair rumpled and mused from sleep, the soft smile that’s on your face and your curious, sparkling eyes. That’s what you should always look like when you wake up next to him Mycroft decides, thinking that you probably don’t know it but that he could wake up to you forever. 

 

You grin as he leans back and he feels another pull of attraction towards you, before you shake your head and sit up. “I can at least have breakfast with you.”

 

He smiles and his stomach wriggles pleasantly, before he leaves for Sherlock’s room where he’s left his clothes for that day.

 

*

 

“You taking any lunch with you?” you ask as you sit across from each other at the small table in the kitchen, your legs tangling together a little. 

 

“I figured I’d just get something there,” he says, swallowing another mouthful of Shreddies. 

 

You eat some more of your own, pondering over the matter, before you look up and muse, “It’s probably sensible to take something with you though, even if it’s just a snack.” He looks at you and you can tell from the sudden wariness in his eyes that he’s against the idea. “I could sort it all out for you, all you’d have to do is put it in your bag. Besides,” you add, “Your mother would never forgive me if I let you go hungry.”

 

“That’s true,” Mycroft smiles. He leaves you a few moments later to go upstairs. 

 

*

 

When he returns, all ready to go with his bag that’s carrying his laptop and notes slung over his shoulder, he can’t help but smile when he sees you standing next to the green apple and bottle of water that you've left for him on the breakfast bar. 

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing you quickly and putting one hand on your waist, before he slides both the apple and the water into his bag. 

 

“Hang on,” you say as he draws back from you. He stills. You straighten the red tie that he’s wearing. “There, you’ll be fine now,” you tell him, admiring how smart he looks in his dark jacket. The white shirt and red tie that accompany it stand out and make a nice contrast. He smiles. 

 

You follow him out to the door. 

 

“Right, so I’ll see you later then?” he tells you once he’s standing on the doorstep and you’re keeping the door open. 

 

“Mmm, good luck,” you tell him. 

 

“Call me if you need anything,” he urges, before he kisses you again. You put a hand on his shoulder as he does so and slowly draw it back as he pulls away from you. You smile at each other, reassuring one another, before he turns. You watch as he goes off down the street. As you do so you can’t help but feel warm inside when you think about everything that’s happened that morning, and whilst you don’t exactly harbour any ambitions to be a 1950’s housewife-you want your own career and your own life outside of the home-you can imagine waking up with Mycroft every day and exchanging some nice, small moments with each other, before you both go to your respective jobs. You think you’d really like that. You let out a soft sigh as Mycroft disappears from sight. Then you make to close the door, but before you can you feel your phone buzzing. You take it out of your pocket. 

 

_Enjoying your domestic bliss?_ The text from Moriarty reads. You grip the phone tightly in your hand. You’re suddenly tempted to send a text back, asking what he wants, but you know that, that would just make you feel even angrier. Angry because of whatever Moriarty would say in response, but angrier from having replied to him in the first place when you've been doing so well at acting like you’re ignoring him. You swallow and head back inside, trying to once again act oblivious to the fact that Moriarty always seems to be lurking in the background of your life. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s buzzing with an excited energy when he comes back that night. You can tell that he’s trying to be calm, but the way that he talks about the office he went to and the people he met, well, you can just tell that his eyes have been opened. Seeing him like that, so happy and alive, makes you feel happy too, and makes you once again picture what the future could be like. Maybe Mycroft and you could be sitting together in your own house? Eating, chatting, living and sharing your own bed together one day. Something in your stomach wriggles pleasantly, because that, you know, is what your life could one day be like. You could wake up to Mycroft every day, and then, one day after work you could find yourself snuggled into his side on the settee, whilst he puts an arm around you, and you could just realize something. Realize that this is it; you've made it now. You’re content with your life and Moriarty’s so far behind you that he can’t touch you any more, can’t even stretch his dark tentacles out to effect your mind. There’s just the warmth of the fire and Mycroft and your happiness together. You sigh softly, making that perfect day a goal in your head. 

 

Mycroft reaches out and puts his hand over yours on top of the table, tangling your fingers together. “What is it?” he asks softly. 

 

“Sorry I”- you begin, coming out of your daze, before you shift your position and go on to explain, “I was just thinking that I really like where the future’s going right now.”

 

Mycroft smiles. 

 

*

 

The following day Mycroft and you are supposed to be meeting up with Violet and Edwin so that you can go flat hunting together. 

 

Violet’s arranged a couple of viewings for you, but just before you’re about to leave the house you have a doubt. “Are you sure that it’s okay for me to come?” you ask. Mycroft looks around at you from where he’d just been about to lead you out of the door. “I don’t want to get in the way. If it’s just a family thing,” you tell him uncertainly. 

 

“You won’t be,” he says, his face softening as he comes to wrap his arms around you and kiss you on the forehead. “Besides,” he says, brushing a strand of hair back from your face now, whilst you look at him a little tentatively, “You _are_ family, to me anyway.” 

 

You feel those warm bubbles of happiness rising up inside you again. You can’t help but smile. _“Really?”_ you ask.

 

Mycroft nods and smiles.

 

Your heart does a little jump in your chest. You follow him outside. 

 

You meet up with Violet and Edwin at a café close by. When they greet you with a warm enthusiasm you start to feel more reassured. Mycroft looks at you knowingly and you smile a little sheepishly. 

 

“Right,” Violet says, taking charge, “We better get moving. The one that we'll be going to first is the one that's closest to the office you’ll be working in. Our second appointment is a little further away, two miles, but it’s in a nice area and it’s also a little bigger. You might like it better in fact.”

 

Violet’s predictions turn out to be spot on. You can tell that Mycroft’s not keen on the first flat you go to straight away, even though it’s within walking distance of the office. It’s very small and cramped and mightily expensive for what you get. 

 

“He’s a little bit fussy,” Violet tells the young and rather flustered looking man that’s showing you around. 

 

Mycroft glances at you with an expression that you can’t decipher, before he looks back to his mother and says, “I just want to be comfortable Mummy. I know that it would be very convenient if I were to take this one, but I don’t want to sacrifice comfort for convenience.” Again he looks at you and you wonder what he’s thinking. 

 

You’re about to open your mouth to perhaps try and encourage him to talk more about his feelings when Violet says, “Right, well thank you very much for showing us around,” and the moment is lost as you get bustled hurriedly out of the flat and begin to make your way to the next destination. 

 

As you go towards the next flat and to where a blonde haired woman is standing just outside of it, looking very smart and professional as she waits to show you around, you make the sudden realization why Mycroft might want to take this next flat above the other. It makes you stop dead. Edwin and Violet don’t notice, they just carry on walking, and Mycroft takes another step, before he realizes that you've stopped and looks back around. 

 

“F/N?” he asks, clearly puzzled. 

 

You look ahead to where Violet and Edwin have now stopped. Violet gestures at you both to come forwards, but you look at Mycroft and say, “Can I talk to you? Just for a moment?” 

 

He must sense the urgency in your words and see it in your face, for he looks around at Violet and calls, “We won’t be a moment Mummy. Why don’t you go ahead and get started?” 

 

Violet frowns at you for another moment, clearly disapproving about whatever the hold up is. You shoot Edwin a bit of a pleading look and thankfully he seems to understand that it’s important. He leads his wife away. 

 

“What is it?” Mycroft asks, stepping closer to you. 

 

You look at him. “You didn't just turn your back on the other flat because of me did you? I know this one’s closer to the university and to the station. I know the other one was expensive, but this one could be just as cramped and”-

 

Mycroft puts his hands on your shoulders. “Mummy sent me the on-line links to both flats last night. I had a quick look at them and I knew from the off that this one would be more suitable.”

 

 _“But”-_ you protest a little again, still not feeling completely satisfied. 

 

“Come,” he murmurs, grasping at your hand and leading you forwards. “Let me show you.” 

 

You follow after him, still feeling a little tentative about whether the flat will actually be suitable or if Mycroft’s just being silly. 

 

You enter the flat. 

 

“Ah,” Violet says, bustling towards you and beckoning you both forwards, “This is my son Mycroft and his beautiful girlfriend F/N.” You blush a little and turn your head away. Mycroft squeezes your hand. 

 

Violet reaches you in the next moment and she brushes some invisible dust off her son’s chest, something which makes Mycroft pull his stomach in as he tries to escape her attentions. “Now,” Violet says, just at the moment where Mycroft was about to let go of your hand so that he could bat her away, “You need to both take a good look around and see if you like it. There’s a very nice bedroom here. You can take a look at that first”-

 

 _“Mummy,”_ Mycroft hisses, his face crimson as he lets go of your hand and nods at where the blonde woman’s making small talk with Edwin. 

 

“Oh really Mycroft,” Violet huffs, straightening her son’s shirt and smoothing it down, “I don’t know why you get so embarrassed about these things. F/N will probably be staying with you here at some point won’t she?” Mycroft nods, still looking very much like he’d just like to turn and hurry back out of the flat. “Then you’ll be needing a nice bedroom to relax in together won’t you?” Violet asks, looking at her son rather sternly. Mycroft just nods, not knowing what else he can do. You look off to the side, focusing hard on the wall, whilst you try to pretend that the current conversation isn't happening around you.

 

Violet finally steps aside. You introduce yourselves properly to the blonde haired woman who introduces herself as Kitty Riley, before she guides you around. 

 

She takes you to the bedroom first, per Violet’s instructions, and Mycroft and you are both too embarrassed to give it more than a quick glance, before you just hum, nod and look away again. 

 

“Well, look at it properly,” Violet barks at you, and Mycroft and you both start, before you exchange a hurried glance with each other and then look around in more detail. 

 

A grand looking wardrobe and chest of drawers stand off to the right, separated from being together by a small dressing table and oval mirror that stands in between them. There’s another mirror close to the door-a full-length one-whilst a writing desk stands directly opposite the double bed that stands to the back and at the centre of the room. The left side of the room is mostly free from space aside from the small bedside cabinet that holds a lamp, whilst the wall is taken up by two vast windows. Pulling the long cream-coloured curtains together can shut out the view. 

 

“The scenery's fantastic, come and look at it F/N,” Violet says, ushering you forwards, and you give Mycroft a bit of a look, before you make to follow her. 

 

The view _is_ beautiful. Buildings stretch out into the far distance. You get a glimpse of the Thames, and you can imagine that at night-time it will be even more astonishing with the lights of the buildings twinkling down against the river and it all being framed by the navy sky. You lean forwards, imagining it all, and as you do so you see the future again. You picture Mycroft lying sideways in the bed behind you. You picture yourself coming into the room, perhaps yawning a little and Mycroft telling you with a smile to come to bed. The curtains aren't yet shut. You give him a quick, easy smile and go across to close them, pulling them together and taking pleasure in the fact that you can turn around and know that in that one movement you've blocked out the rest of the world. It’s just him and you. The way it should be. You smile and open your eyes, not even realizing you’d closed them as you come out of your imagined future. A soft sigh escapes your lips. 

 

Violet looks at you with a startling amount of understanding on her face. “You can have it all dear,” she tells you. 

 

You look at her, part of you still not believing in the imagined future you've created for yourself despite how much you want to. For that feeling of safe certainty still seems like a way off. 

 

Violet looks over her shoulder momentarily at her son, before she looks back at you. “He’s standing close to his father. Edwin’s hand is on his shoulder, but Mycroft’s whole body is turned towards you. He’s finding you very beautiful.”

 

You look around, unable to help yourself. Mycroft straightens up a little as you do so. You can feel this weird thing going on between you as your eyes meet, like an arrow that’s pulling you closer together. You have a clear clarity in that moment that whether the future ends up being as safe as you’d like it to be or not you want to spend the rest of your life loving him and being loved by him. 

 

You know he feels it too when he steps forwards, his eyes still on you, and says softly, “I’ll take it.”

 

Your heart leaps. 

 

“Do you mean the flat dear or the girl? Because you've already got her,” Violet says wryly, patting you on the shoulder, before she goes across and does the same to her blushing son. 

 

The rest of the flat is just as nice as the bedroom, which is lucky really considering that Mycroft already said he’d take it. There’s a small kitchen area in the corner, similar to the one at the house you've been living in at university, a small rectangular table beyond that for eating and a small living room area with a comfy looking settee and armchair that both point-the armchair doing so in a distinctly diagonal fashion-towards the small television. A long rectangular painting of light that shines over a grassy hill and forest complete with brook rests on the far wall. The soft colours of it give you hope, and as you catch Mycroft watching you after you look at it you know that he’s even more certain that this is the flat for him. 

 

*

 

Molly and Greg come over to the town house for a couple of hours that night, after you've said goodbye to Violet and Edwin and promised to return to the cottage that weekend. 

 

Mycroft and you cook for your friends, and whilst you eat and slowly make your way through the bottle of wine that they've brought, again you have a flash of what the future could be like. Picturing you all a little older and the scene taking place at the flat instead. 

 

Warmth and laughter float around the room. You feel happy. 

 

*

 

Mycroft goes back to the office later on in the week, just to sign some papers. Then it’s back to the cottage where you spend another blissful few weeks together, before you return to university. 

 

Molly bursts into your room just as you’re unpacking, looking rather giggly. 

 

You turn around and quirk an eyebrow up at her, holding a top in your hand. 

 

“Sorry,” she grins, “It’s just I didn't want to say this by text, but”-

 

“Greg and you”- you guess, it suddenly dawning on you.

 

She nods, “Last night, since we knew you all weren't coming back until today and we both wanted to, we”-

 

“Okay I think I get the picture,” you say, holding your free hand up and another bout of giggles burst out of Molly’s mouth as you look embarrassed, “But I take it, it was good and he was, erm, good?” you add a little awkwardly. 

 

She nods and you can’t help but feel happy for her. 

 

*

Autumn’s a quiet one that year. 

 

There’s something peaceful though about working with others around the dining room table or about studying a book in the living room, softly laughing with Molly about something every now and again, and having Mycroft walk back and for, patting at your shoulder protectively every time he does so. Something nice and reassuring, and as you think about all the pleasant moments that you've had each night before you go to sleep and think about how each one is another thing that Moriarty hasn't managed to touch you can’t help but smile. You feel a sense of victory. Especially when those moments pile up and your nightmares become less frightening and more manageable to deal with. 

 

Halloween and Bonfire Night pass by equally as pleasurable, with all of you going to the party at the student union and drinking and dancing until the early hours of the morning and Mycroft and you holding hands as you watch the fireworks burst into the sky above you. It’s the first time you've been a couple during these occasions, and as you tilt your head and watch the lights and patterns be reflected in Mycroft’s eyes, you come to feel even more appreciative of him. 

 

But as Christmas rapidly approaches such nice moments, especially when they involve Mycroft, become tinged with sadness. Something which isn't helped by the fact that Moriarty starts sending you a text every night, counting down to when Mycroft’s due to start his work experience. You know that Mycroft would get mad if you told him, know that he’d worry and refuse to go, know that he’d be stubborn and unable to persuade otherwise, so you don’t tell him. Instead you keep the matter of Moriarty’s text messages close inside your chest and try to bury it inside you. Still you feel uneasy though. You begin to dwell on the matter before you go to bed every night. Thinking that if Moriarty’s counting down then that either means something’s going to happen or that he’s just teasing you because he knows that, that will already play on the fears you have about something happening once Mycroft leaves. Your nightmares start to prickle at you more insistently, but they’re still manageable. That’s something you’re thankful for, along with the fact that Mycroft hasn't seemed to notice any change in you and asked you about it.

 

One night things change again though. You’re doing some re-writing on your laptop in your room for an essay that you've got to hand in, before the holidays. You find it easier to do re-writes in your room so that’s why you've shut yourself away. But you've barely got going when Sherlock slips inside the room and closes the door. You look up and feel surprised to see him. Usually it’s only Mycroft or Molly who come into your room. Sherlock gives you a bit of a look, before he glances back at the door in a shifty fashion. 

 

“Is everything all right?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. 

 

He looks back at the door hesitantly again, before he moves forwards. Then he looks at you steadily as he slowly takes his phone out of his pocket. Your heart clenches with a sudden panic as your eyes dart from him to the phone and back again. You get a sudden feeling that this is it, that somehow both Mycroft and Sherlock have found out about the text messages you've been getting and that Mycroft is so disappointed in you for keeping it from him that he’s left it to Sherlock to talk to you. All of the images you've seen of the possible future crumble before you, turning to dust. “Mycroft doesn’t know,” Sherlock says, and suddenly all the images of your future re-build themselves. 

 

You let out a sigh of relief. Your head, which had started to spin, begins to right itself again. You put a hand to it momentarily, before you look at him and ask, “How come you know?”

 

Sherlock simply looks at you for a moment. Then he confesses, “Because I’ve been getting them too.” 

 

Your head reels. It had never occurred to you, despite Moriarty’s apparent interest in the youngest Holmes brother that Sherlock would be getting them too. You take a couple of breaths to get yourself together. “What have yours been saying?” you ask. 

 

“Similar stuff to what he said at the clinic,” Sherlock shrugs, “That I’ll be the one ending my own life and he’ll be watching.” You swallow, your hands fidgeting, as you feel uncomfortable. “Though that’s neither here nor there,” Sherlock goes on, “What I need to know is has he been counting down in yours?” You nod. “I thought so,” he says. “From now on I want you to forward everything that he sends you to me, and if he starts leaving voice mail messages then I want you to tell me at once. Is that clear?” 

 

You frown. “Voice mail messages? Has he been sending some to you?” you ask, feeling surprised because all you've had up to now is texts. 

 

Sherlock hesitates. “Again that’s”-

 

“Sherlock,” you breathe, your head starting to feel a little dizzy, “I think maybe we should tell Mycroft about this,” because as much as you don’t want to you know that Sherlock’s holding back and keeping things from you, perhaps because he wants to protect you, and you know that he’d probably be a bit more upfront with his brother. 

 

“A moment ago you were looking relieved that he _didn't_ know,” Sherlock says sceptically. 

 

You swallow, running your hands through your hair. “That’s because I don’t want him to be upset about me not telling him, or worried”-

 

“Well you’re right,” Sherlock says. You look at him. “He will be upset and he will be worried.” You begin to wish that he wasn't being quite so honest with you, but it’s not until he says, “He’ll be disappointed in you,” harshly with cold eyes and a stern expression on his face that your heart properly lurches. “That’s why,” he goes on, resuming his normal voice and demeanour, “I vote that, for now anyway, we don’t tell him.” You fold your arms loosely over your knees as you lean forward, your hands fidgeting against the material of your sleeves. “You know that as soon as Mycroft finds out about them, and especially about the fact that Moriarty’s been counting down to when he leaves, that he won’t go don’t you?” 

 

“I know,” you swallow, feeling helpless because you've come to hate keeping things from Mycroft-you know what it does to him-but at the same time you know that Sherlock’s right and that you've been right all along about this. No matter how disappointed Mycroft will be it’s better for him in the long run to be kept out of it. You hate the thought of him being disappointed in you though… 

 

“So you’ll keep quiet?” Sherlock urges, breaking you out of your thought.

 

Slowly you nod and unfold your arms. “I take it you've got a plan?” you ask, sitting up a little straighter. 

 

Sherlock shifts his position. “Not yet,” he confesses, and your eyes widen a little, “But I can see where all this will lead, can’t you?” You look at him, frowning and wishing that you’d been able to take more from your own text messages. “We’re going to die.” Bubbles of panic begin to rise up inside you. You stand, looking at him. He moves closer to you. “We’re both going to die unless we do something about it, but there’s a way, a way that I think where we might be able to”-

 

“We’re going to try and beat him?” you ask croakily, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand to get rid of the moisture that’s started to gather there.

 

“Together yes, it’s our only hope,” Sherlock confirms, reaching forwards to take your hand loosely in his, before he gives it a quick squeeze and lets go again. 

 

“But what about Mycroft?” you sniff, “Shouldn't he?”- You go on, before you break off. You don’t like the thought of facing Moriarty again without Mycroft. It’s not that you don’t trust Sherlock, but what if something goes wrong?

 

“Don’t tell him,” Sherlock urges, “Don’t tell him about any of this.” You open your mouth. “There’s no point,” he further tries to persuade you, “Think of all the disappointment and the worry that it will cause. You’ll just be playing right into Moriarty’s hands, doing exactly what he expects you to. That’s not living,” Sherlock reminds you, taking your hand once more with his. “We can do this on our own.” Again you get an uneasy feeling in your stomach about lying to Mycroft. But eventually you nod, knowing that for now it’s the right decision and that you’ll just have to put all your faith in Sherlock and trust that he’ll see you through. Sherlock smiles encouragingly at you, squeezes your hand and then leaves the room. 

 

You get a text message a moment later. _No escape. Twenty-three days._ The bubbles of panic surge up inside you. You feel like you can’t breathe. You open your mouth, gasping for air. A sob bursts out and you raise your hand to your mouth. How can Sherlock possibly think that he can come up with a plan that will beat Moriarty when he’s constantly watching the pair of you? Again you wish that Mycroft was involved, but you know that it’s for the best that he isn't. Know that at all costs it’s vital that you don’t tell him unless it becomes completely necessary. You let out a shuddery breath and forward Moriarty’s message to Sherlock. Your brain whirls with both worry and panic, but you know that you have to stay strong. You have to at least try and believe that there’s a way out of this, or you’ll never be able to carry on with everything. You try and clear your head. You push your phone aside. Push your laptop aside too. Then you try and hold onto everything that makes you happy.

 

*

 

Over the last couple of weeks of term Sherlock and you exchange several looks and silent nods, Sherlock encouraging you with each one to keep forwarding Moriarty’s messages to him, to not tell Mycroft and you asking him with your eyes if he’s come up with a more solid plan that he’s willing to share with you. He never tells you anything and it makes you feel anxious. 

 

The air’s not exactly despondent that last week of term, thoughtful perhaps with everyone meeting deadlines and looking a bit frazzled as minds turn to the January exams. But a Christmas party-encouraged mostly by Molly, “It’s the last one we’ll be able to have in this house, whilst we’re all together”-is held nonetheless. 

 

The thought of how fast the year is going and how soon you’ll be leaving the house is another one that, along with Mycroft’s imminent departure, makes you feel impossibly sad. 

 

Molly and you get dressed and then Molly goes downstairs first, as has now become the tradition for her to. You sigh. You’re finding it hard to get excited about tonight. You feel like you’re just going through the motions, whilst your mind dwells on everything. Your phone buzzes on top of your bed and you go towards it, picking it up. _Hold him close_ , it reads. You let out a sigh. It wasn't supposed to be like this. You were supposed to just carry on with your life and keep Moriarty in the background. But that’s something, which seems to be getting harder and harder to do. Every day it’s like your life gets closer to stopping and Moriarty gets closer and closer to being in the foreground. Your heart sinks. You drop your phone onto your bed and turn. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Your face looks pale, tired and your mouth is barely able to smile. Mycroft will definitely notice something’s not right with you if you go down like this. You huff out a breath and turn around, adjusting your dress, whilst you look at yourself. You don’t even have the energy to pretend. Your shoulders slump and your smile disappears as quickly as you manage to force it onto your face. You sigh. Then you look around at the time. There’s nothing for it. If you stay up here much longer then it will be like waving a red flag to everyone. You have to go down. You take a breath and force yourself forwards, moving out of your room and downstairs. Your long black dress sweeps a little against the stairs as you go down them. Gold tinsel lines the banister, accompanied by holly and the occasional sprig of mistletoe. You go around the corner and into the living room. Everybody you hold dear is already there. Sherlock, looking a little tired and worn but happy sits in the armchair, a glass of red wine in his hand, whilst John stands close beside him, chatting to his boyfriend quite happily as he holds a can of beer. There’s Molly and Greg, smiling at each other as they stand close to the Christmas tree that’s in the corner and occasionally sipping at their wine as they talk. You take a moment to just appreciate them all, before you let your eyes finally go to Mycroft, who’s standing directly opposite the door as he waits for you to arrive. You let out a soft breath. Your mind becomes less troubled for a moment just by looking at him. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit, a pale yellow tie and a matching pocket-handkerchief in his breast pocket. He smiles at you and comes towards you. You try to smile back. 

 

“You’re looking as beautiful as you were at our first Christmas party,” he tells you, and you feel a pang because this is the last. He takes you in his arms and kisses your cheek briefly. 

 

“You’re just as handsome,” you tell him with a small smile that makes Mycroft’s heart flip over. 

 

“Shall we get drinks?” he asks, half-turning away, before he makes to lead you towards the coffee table, which is full of glasses of wine and cans of beer. 

 

You shake your head, grabbing at his hand and making him look back at you. “I’d prefer to just dance,” you tell him, “Unless you”- you go on, before you break off when he shakes his head. 

 

“That sounds fine,” he says, guiding you to the middle of the floor so that you can begin to sway along to the soft Christmas music-currently _‘Silent Night’_ -that’s playing in the background. He puts his arms around your waist and you put your hands upon his shoulders, before you draw them around his back so that you can pull him close. You duck your head down, resting it against his chest. You can feel the quiver of his heartbeat. It tickles against your ear reassuringly. As you listen to it you can’t help but think that you’d be quite happy if you only heard that one sound for the rest of your life. Quite happy to just have this silence between you, if it meant that Moriarty would give you a silent night. A silent life. You push your head more insistently against Mycroft’s chest as you begin to feel sad about everything again. Mycroft’s hands drift up to your back and tighten there. “Is everything all right?” he asks quietly, feeling a little surprised by just how close you want to be to him. 

 

You swallow a couple of times, before you draw back and look at him. You cup his face with your hand for a moment, before you say, “Sorry, I guess I'm just realizing that things aren't ever going to be the same again. This is the last Christmas party, soon I’ll be having my exams and my dissertation and you’ll have your work experience, I just”- you break off. 

 

He looks at you understandingly. His hand comes up to trail through your hair. He doesn’t have to say anything because he does it with his actions instead. He pulls you close, his hands still on your back, whilst you rest your head against his chest again. You get the feeling that Sherlock’s watching you and you hear John’s words come to a faltering end as he breaks off and does the same, whilst you sense Greg and Molly as they come out to dance, but the only thing that you’re properly aware of is Mycroft and the feel of him. How his hands now slide to your waist as you sway gently together and the feel of his heartbeat so close to yours. It feels like another moment in life that just drifts by, sweet and perfect. You draw your head away and lean up to kiss him softly for a moment, before you slip back down, keeping one hand on his back and raising the other to splay a little against his chest. He watches you curiously, this look on his face as if he’d do anything for you in that moment. Your fingers shift against the material of his jacket as you try and locate his heartbeat. _Hold him close_ , the text comes back to you. You let out a sigh, before for once you willingly do exactly as Moriarty wants and pull Mycroft closer, your hands rubbing against his back as you breathe him in. 

 

*

 

Mycroft and you leave just a few days later to spend the holidays at his flat. Violet hadn't been best pleased to learn about Mycroft’s plan, clearly she’d been looking forward to having you stay in the cottage with them again, but Mycroft had been insistent, saying that the whole thing made sense since he’d be starting work experience on the second of January and that he preferred to stay in London on the off-chance that he’d get a call and be needed for something before that. Part of you had wondered if he’d just wanted to spend some quality time alone with you, but you hadn't asked. After all you have every reason to want to spend some time alone with him too, so you don’t want him to think that you were complaining. 

 

Still it’s odd, if not quite as odd when you’d entered Mycroft’s family London home before last summer, to enter the flat and know that you have just over a week together, before everything changes. 

 

One of the first things you do is unpack, and as you almost do a little dance around each other in the bedroom, whilst you sort out your respective things and your clothes and Mycroft’s come to be alongside each other in the wardrobe you can’t help but smile. Mycroft notices such a thing and looks at you, “It’s nice,” you tell him. 

 

He smiles and for a moment he opens his mouth and looks as if he’s about to say something. But he just ends up giving you a mysterious kind of look instead, before he looks away from you, his attention going back to the wardrobe. You look at him, wondering what’s going on in that funny head of his. 

 

It’s quite possible that whatever he’d been about to say hadn't been that important, for he acts perfectly normal around you when you go shopping later on, before you cook and eat together. 

 

As you look at him across the small, rectangular dining table that night you once again get that warm feeling inside you. Once again get the feeling that this is what the future could be like if Moriarty could just stay away for long enough. 

 

“You’re happy?” Mycroft checks, looking up at you after swallowing a mouthful of Spaghetti Bolognese. 

 

“Very,” you tell him, reaching across so that you can squeeze his free hand, which is resting on the table. 

 

“Good,” he murmurs, smiling a little and looking down at his food, before he looks back up at you again. His eyes linger on you for a moment, before he goes on, “I’ve been trying not to say anything”-your heart shifts a little uncomfortably and you withdraw your hand-“But you've seemed a little quiet of late. The Christmas party?” You open your mouth. “I know that you said it’s because everything’s changing, but if it’s more than that, if you’d rather I didn't go”- he breaks off. 

 

You swallow. Your hands fidget against your cutlery. This type of conversation is exactly the one you’d wanted to avoid. You suddenly wish that Sherlock was there to say something and distract his brother. You pull a bit of a face and shake your head. Mycroft’s eyes fix on you intently. “No, I-I want you to go. I’d rather you did in fact,” you get out hurriedly. Mycroft looks at you more seriously. You grab at his hand, swallowing again. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just-I just mean that I want you to live your life. I don’t want anything stopping you from doing that. _I_ don’t want to stop you, and I could see from when you went over the summer how good this opportunity would be for you and how much it would mean.” 

 

Mycroft’s face softens. “You’ll text me every day?” he checks. 

 

“Just try and stop me,” you say, “I’ll probably call most days too and we’ll Skype and see each other at weekends.” You let out a bit of a watery giggle, before your hands come together again. Your fingers stroke at each other’s reassuringly.

 

Mycroft smiles at you, before his face becomes more serious as he looks at you. His fingers still against yours. “You’ll tell me if anything happens or starts to occur?” he asks. You swallow. “I know what you’re like F/N,” he goes on more fervently, “I don’t want you getting it into that head of yours that just because I'm further away you can’t talk to me or tell me about what’s worrying you. I know you understand how important this opportunity is for me and I know that you don’t want me to worry, but you’re far more important to me than any of that.” You let out a soft breath as he pauses. “If anything happens or Moriarty tries to contact you or anything like that then I want you to get in touch with me straight away. You understand? I know that I'm going to be away, but at the end of the day I'm just across town and I could be back to you quite easily”-

 

“Myc,” you interrupt when you can tell that he’s getting worked up, cupping your hand around his and stroking at it soothingly. 

 

He huffs out a breath and relaxes a little. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I just don’t want you shutting me out again, I”- his voice breaks. 

 

“I'm not going to shut you out again,” you reassure him, stroking at his hand more firmly and squeezing at each finger in turn. But even as you say the words your heart flickers uncomfortably inside your chest. For isn't this what you’re doing right now? By keeping the texts from him? Even if you _are_ doing it for his own good? You sigh inwardly. Why does everything have to be so hard? Why can’t you just get to a point in your life when you can just love the man in front of you and focus on that?

 

He nods, looking at you studiously for a moment. “I hope not,” he murmurs. 

 

Your heart sinks, and as you both carry on eating your dinner you can tell that he’s feeling very troubled by the matter and your imminent separation. You are too. 

 

*

 

Your phone buzzes late that night, just as you’re about to slip into bed next to Mycroft. 

 

 _Nine days._ Something tightens in your stomach. You’re into single figures now. 

 

“Everything all right?” Mycroft asks, on his side now as he looks at you curiously. 

 

Your head jerks up a little as you start out of your daze. “Er yeah, it’s Molly, just let me…” you mutter, before you trail off, your head bending down towards your phone. You hurriedly forward the message to Sherlock. Then you put the phone back down onto the bedside cabinet, before you slip into bed beside him. 

 

You shuffle a little closer to each other and he strokes at your hair for a moment. His eyes watch as his hand trails through it, before they go back to yours. “I was going to wait until our last night here, before I suggested this," he begins hesitantly, "But since we ended up talking a little about the future earlier and since I can tell that we’re both worried, but trying not to be, I thought it might be nice to give us a possibility that we could both look forward to.”

 

“What is it?” you murmur. 

 

His hand goes to your shoulder. It fidgets at the soft, thin material of your pyjama top for a moment, before it goes to your waist. His eyes follow it down, before they go back to you. “I-now you don’t have to answer me straight away on this,” he tells you, “Maybe it’s better that I'm mentioning it now anyway to give you a chance this week to think about it. Of course if you’re still not sure then there’s no”-

 

“Myc what is it?” you interrupt, beginning to feel a little afraid now as your finger strokes a circle into his vest clad hip. He swallows and something inside you stiffens. Whatever can have made your boyfriend so nervous?

 

“Move in with me,” he says, before he adds hurriedly, “Here if you want, after we-after we graduate.” He looks at you imploringly, as if the fate of his whole world rests on your answer. 

 

Your hand stills on his hip, whilst your head spins, your mind once again picturing the perfect little image you’d created of your future. The whole thing suddenly looks more real and clearer, as if someone’s just adjusted the picture. “I’d love to,” you breathe. 

 

“You’re sure?” Mycroft asks, but his whole face brightens at your answer. You nod and his lips find yours a moment later, before he jerks his head back hurriedly. “Sorry,” he announces. 

 

“What for?” you ask him with a bit of a frown as your hand goes up to stroke the side of his face. 

 

He pulls back from you a little, “Well, we’re-we’re in bed,” he says a little embarrassedly, barely able to look at you. 

 

“Kissing in bed’s all right isn't it?” you ask, pulling your head back and his eyes flick to yours. You can tell from his face that for some reason kissing in bed _isn't_ all right. You open your mouth. But then you close it in the next moment because you can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Okay,” you murmur, deciding to discuss it with him some other time. He looks instantly relieved. 

 

*

 

Christmas Eve is an odd mix of happiness and tension about the future. 

 

The flat doesn’t have any decorations up so Mycroft and you take a trip on the bus to get some. 

 

It’s fun looking at the selection in the shops. Again it feels like another carefree moment that belongs in your future and that you've been gifted early. 

 

“What about this one?” you ask, pointing to a pretty blue bauble that has a sliver silhouette of a snowflake on it, before you re-consider, “I guess we shouldn't really”-

 

“How come?” Mycroft interjects, looking at you with a soft curiosity about his face. 

 

“Well, we won’t have a tree so I guess we won’t have anywhere to hang it,” you explain, feeling a little despondent. 

 

“We’ll find somewhere,” Mycroft says, taking hold of your gloved hand in his. 

 

You perk up a little, a smile appearing on your face, before your fingers go to pull the bauble off. 

 

“You know,” Mycroft says, adjusting his hold on you, “I was thinking that it might be nice if we got a decoration that reminded you of your parents. Something you could just look at and remember them by. That is if we see anything.”

 

You look hard at the bauble for a moment, feeling touched. Then you look up at him, nod and smile, feeling more grateful for him in that moment than he could ever know. 

 

You don’t see anything that’s really special though until you’re browsing your fifth shop. You’re at the bauble section again, your eyes scanning but not looking as hard as they once were due to the fact that you’re starting to get hungry when you see a multi-coloured bauble whose soft colours sparkle and shine in the light. You let out a little breath and Mycroft goes still next to you. Your fingers reach toward the bauble and pull it off. It fits perfectly into your hand. You turn it around and let out a little breath. A shape of a dove-the sign of peace and better things to come-has been carved into the centre. The light seems to fill it. Just like that you know that this is the one. Your throat feels tight. You feel Mycroft’s hand going to your shoulder, squeezing it. He knows that, that’s the one too.

 

“Come,” he says, steering you slowly towards the till. 

 

*

 

Your mind is still on your parents on the bus ride home. Your eyes gaze out, looking off somewhere into the distance at the damp pavements and buildings. A bag of decorations is on your lap and Mycroft’s by your side with another bag of decorations by his feet. 

 

Mycroft leaves you to your thought. Then when you get off the bus he steers you gently to the flat, one of his hands on your back. 

 

You enter it first. 

 

“Surprise!” a yell makes you start out of your daze and your body jerks back automatically, causing Mycroft’s hand to go to your waist reassuringly. 

 

Molly and Greg, looking flushed but happy, stand opposite the door. Just behind them, close to the far-right corner of the room, stands a tall Christmas tree. 

 

You blink, wondering if you’re actually seeing what you think you are. Wondering if you’re really seeing Molly with her hair all mused from where she’s been wearing a hat that’s now resting on top of where they've left their dark black and grey coats draped across the back of the settee. Wondering if you’re really seeing Greg with his brown eyes so boyish as they look at you both and take you in. 

 

“Mycroft roped us in, he knew you’d want a tree,” Greg says, and a smile takes over your face as you at last realize that _yes,_ this is all real, before you turn and fling yourself into your boyfriend’s arms. 

 

“Thank you,” you say as Mycroft lets out a bit of a breath, before you peck at his lips quickly. 

 

Mycroft tries not to look too pleased with himself. 

 

“Well, come on then, we need to start decorating and making this place look Christmassy. Molly’s even brought us some Christmas tree cookies for the occasion,” Greg urges as you turn back to face them again. 

 

“I made them last night, Greg helped me,” Molly reveals a little breathlessly as she and Greg share a bit of a look, and as you see a blush taking over Molly’s face in particular you get the feeling that they’d done a lot more than just make cookies the previous night, _especially_ when you remember that they’re staying at the university house alone this Christmas. 

 

Mycroft must get that sense too for he clears his throat and lets go of you. Greg and he share a sudden look, and you wonder what it’s about. It seems to be full of meaning. 

 

Molly distracts you a moment later though, bringing the circular tub of cookies that she’s made over and waving them underneath your nose, so rather than thinking more on the odd look that Mycroft and Greg had exchanged just now, you go off to put your bag of decorations down next to the settee. Then you follow her towards the kitchen. 

 

Mycroft and Gregory converge by the tree, Mycroft slowly putting his bag of decorations down. 

 

“So have F/N and you”- Gregory begins as they both pretend to be looking at the tree. 

 

“No,” Mycroft mutters out of the corner of his mouth. 

 

“Not even had a talk?” Gregory checks. 

 

“No,” Mycroft clarifies edgily, before he glances at where Molly and you are standing close together in the kitchen. You’re leaning back, your hands against the counter, your head turned towards Molly who seems to be putting some of the cookies on a large plate. 

 

*

 

“So,” Molly grins, casting a fond look at Greg, before she looks back at first you and then the cookies, “It must be pretty romantic staying here with Mycroft for Christmas?” 

 

“Not as romantic as staying at the university house with Greg I bet,” you fire playfully back, making sure she knows that you’re fully aware of what Greg and she got up to last night.

 

She grins again, hardly able to contain her happiness. “Have you ever thought about it? With Mycroft I mean?” 

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, pulling a bit of a face now that the conversation’s gone back to you. Your eyes automatically go towards Mycroft at the same time his go towards you. You force yourself to smile at him and then look away hurriedly. His eyes linger on you for another moment, before he looks away too. 

 

“F/N? Is everything all right? What was that look just now?” Molly asks. 

 

You heave out a bit of a sigh and look back to her, “Nothing, h-he just acted really awkward and weird when we ended up kissing in bed last night.”

 

“What do you mean, _‘awkward and weird?’”_ Molly says with a bit of a frown as she raises her eyebrows, and her eyes suddenly go all dark and suspicious as she glances at Mycroft. 

 

You get the feeling that she’s moments away from going over there and giving him a right talking to. You shift your position. “Well he-he sort of pulled away really fast and apologized”-

 

“For kissing you?” Molly interjects, looking confused. 

 

“Yeah,” you get out, running a hand through your hair and feeling rather puzzled. “Then he said that we shouldn't be kissing in bed”-

 

“Because he’s not ready?” Molly tries to figure out. 

 

“Maybe,” you shrug. But then you frown and add, “I got the impression that there was something else going on too though, beneath all that…”

 

“Do you think that you’d be ready if he was?” Molly asks, before she lowers her voice when she goes on, “You don’t think that you’d have any odd reactions because of what happened with Moriarty?” 

 

You frown, shifting your position again. “I don’t think I would,” you say, looking at Mycroft’s side profile for a moment, before you look at her again. “I love him. I trust him. I know he’d be gentle with me, and I do want to know what it would feel like to do it with someone who truly matters.”

 

“In that case I think you need to talk,” Molly says and you nod, knowing that she’s probably right, but not having any idea yourself of how to begin such a talk with Mycroft. For how can you have that kind of discussion without it being completely awkward? More to the point how can you have such a conversation without making Mycroft feel either embarrassed or frustrated?

 

Your mind continues to ponder over such an issue, but as the afternoon goes on it becomes less taken up with the problem, for you become too immersed in laughing with your friends, decorating the flat and eating far too many cookies, whilst Christmas music from Greg’s phone plays raucously in the background. 

 

*

 

You’re sitting close to Mycroft on the settee that night, him with his arm around you, and your head on his chest, whilst you stare at the multi-coloured bauble. It had been the last decoration to go up. You’d put it halfway up the tree with everyone watching and you’d felt somehow like you were doing something special. Everyone had clapped and cheered once you’d put it on, and for a moment you’d felt like you were encased in warmth, your body light. Now as you look at it and remember you say, “You know my parents would have really loved today.”

 

“Everyone decorating together?” Mycroft assumes, moving his hand up to brush against your hair. 

 

You lift your head up. “No, what you did for me, getting Molly and Greg to bring the tree and of course everyone then decorating together. But mostly they would have loved seeing what good friends I have and how everyone was being with each other. I think it would have made them really happy. I know it would have.” You pull your head back so that you can look at him. “You know, when I first came to university I never expected to make such good friends.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, understanding you, “I could tell by the way you looked and by the way that you continued to keep your distance from everyone even when we were trying to help.”

 

You swallow, feeling a little guilty, but you know that he’s just being honest. “I expected to just keep my head down and get on with my work. I thought maybe if I did three years of that then I could focus on having friends once I got a flat somewhere and a job.”

 

“Sounds lonely to me,” Mycroft comments, as he rubs a little at your shoulder. 

 

“Isn't that what you were largely thinking of doing?” You ask as you look at him, “Aside from looking out for your brother I mean?” 

 

Mycroft makes a sound of agreement. “It was,” he concurs. 

 

Your faces slide closer together. “I'm glad we found each other,” you breathe, thinking that you couldn't imagine a life that didn't have Mycroft in it. 

 

“Mm,” is all that Mycroft gets out, before his lips are against yours, his hand cupping the side of your face. 

 

You twist towards him and kiss him back for a lingering moment, before you slowly pull away from each other until your foreheads come to be resting close together. His eyes stay shut a moment longer as if he’s fighting with himself about something. As you see the way that his beautiful soft eyelashes are curving down towards his cheeks you want to lose yourself in him. You want to let your lips join together again and devour him, explore every inch of him until you’re completely sated and have him do the same to you. You've never felt such a pull towards anyone else before. But you hold back, your anxiety about pushing him into doing something that he isn't ready to do again coming to the fore. He opens his eyes and lets out a little breath. Slowly your foreheads draw apart and you settle back down in the position that you’d been in earlier, his arm around you and your head on his chest. 

 

Neither of you speak about the matter you know you should, both deciding to leave it for another day. 

 

*

 

You wake that Christmas morning to find Mycroft’s blue eyes watching you. You smile and wriggle against him. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” he tells you, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” you reply. 

 

*

 

“What would Christmas have been like with your parents?” Mycroft asks you over breakfast. 

 

You think about it for a moment, before you smile. “Annoyingly slow to begin with,” you confess, “My parents always insisted on having a lie-in and although I was never one of those kids who woke up horrendously early once I was up”-

 

“You were up?” Mycroft smiles. 

 

“Yeah,” you grin, tangling your legs more completely with his underneath the table. “So waiting for everyone to get ready to do the big present opening was always a little annoying for me. But then once I had my presents I was calm again”-

 

“Or excited depending on what you’d gotten,” Mycroft interjects. 

 

“Exactly,” you smile, tapping your spoon a little against the side of your cereal bowl as you wonder how he’d known. 

 

“You’re forgetting that I used to get the exact same thing with Sherlock,” Mycroft says as if he’s read your mind. 

 

You grin. 

 

*

 

After breakfast Mycroft and you open your gifts to each other. This year you've gotten him a selection of ties that he can wear to his work experience and a wallet-sized photograph of your favourite photo-the one where he’s looking at you-that Violet had taken of him and you last Christmas. 

 

“You don’t have to carry it with you if you don’t want to, I just thought”- you stammer out, but Mycroft whose just been staring down at the photo until that point, holds it in between his fingers, turns and kisses you quickly, before he hugs you for the longest of times.

 

Your face becomes more serious as he holds you. You've never been held like that before, so _desperately_ … 

 

“I really love it F/N,” he says as he pulls back from you, “Of course I’ll carry it with me.”

 

You smile, before your face becomes more serious as he hands his gift to you. 

 

It’s rectangular, the paper beautiful and shiny, and once more its been wrapped with the utmost care for you. 

 

You flick open the little gift card at its corner and let out a breath as you read: **F/N, I will always be there for you. With love, Mycroft.**

 

“Myc,” you murmur, your heart swelling with emotion. 

 

He smiles at you. “I would have written something like that last year if we hadn't been staying at my parents. Mummy fusses enough as it is.”

 

You smile and turn your attention back to the gift. Slowly you open it to reveal a beautiful hardback journal and an expensive looking fountain pen. 

 

“I meant what I said on the label. I will always be there. You can phone me at any time, even if it’s in the middle of the night. But, like I said before, I know you and I can’t pretend that there won’t be times when you might not want to share everything with me, as much as I would like you to, or pretend that there won’t come times when you’d rather keep everything inside your head. So, if you feel like you want to let it all out in a different way then I thought that this might be a good way to do it. Of course you can always use it to jot down something that you want to tell me but you’re afraid you’ll forget. Use it however you like. I just want you to know that it’s there for you as much as I am, okay?” 

 

You kiss and hug him, wrapping your arms around him, before your hands come to rub against his back. You breathe him in deeply. He lets out a soft, contented breath and it tickles the hair that’s by your ear. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you,” you breathe as you pull back. 

 

“You’re most welcome,” he tells you, making you smile again. “It turns out,” he goes on, “That we were thinking along the same lines when we were deciding what to get each other.” You look at him as he pulls out another wrapped gift from behind him and hands it to you. 

 

Again it’s rectangular. The words on the gift card simply read: **I love you.**

 

It’s enough. You smile and trace over the words carefully for a moment with your finger, letting every mark seep into your soul. Then you open it tentatively. 

 

He’s put a bigger version of the photograph that you’d given him in a beautiful silver frame. Entwined vines stretch around the sides of it, each entanglement leading to a gorgeous silver heart that fills each corner. 

 

“Something for you to remember me by,” Mycroft says a little offhandedly as if he’s perfectly calm about the fact that you’ll soon be separated. 

 

“I’ll never forget you,” you murmur, and Mycroft’s heart jumps a little in his chest. “It’s beautiful,” you tell him, looking at him. 

 

You hug and kiss each other again briefly. Then you go and cook the small Christmas lunch that you've figured out for yourselves. Neither of you mention anything about your imminent separation again as you do so. Instead it just stays firmly in the background as you eat and receive phone calls from Mycroft’s parents and Molly and Greg that afternoon. It even manages to stay there that evening when you’re snuggled into Mycroft’s side as you watch TV and talk about things that matter little in an attempt to make this day of peace stretch out. 

 

*

 

It’s Boxing Day and the other side of Christmas when such a matter becomes more difficult to ignore. Mycroft and you now both have less than seven days together, a fact that you both find difficult to disregard and that cuts the laughter-when it does occur-short. 

 

*

 

New Year’s Day is largely silent, but not in a good peaceful way like Christmas had been. Instead it’s full of a morose sort of tension. 

 

You’re sitting on your own on the settee after dinner that night when you get a text. Moriarty’s countdown has now moved into hours. You frown, clutching a little tighter onto your phone and feeling frustrated. You get another text from him just a moment later: _You probably think I'm counting down to dear old Mycroft’s work experience. But has it ever occurred to you F/N that I'm counting down to how many hours you have left until you have to make a choice? A choice about whether you decide to confront me or let your life spiral until you decide to end it yourself anyway? Of course I'm probably not giving you enough credit here. You’re stubborn and a thinker so you do probably have a bit longer yet. But if you don’t decide by tomorrow then expect to be receiving a little gift from me. Tick tock. Oh and enjoy the New Year, whilst you can honey._

 

You slam the phone down on the settee and look around. Mycroft’s still sitting by the dining table where you’d left him. He’s resting his head down on his hand, looking glum. That’s it, you decide, you've had it. Had it with the fact that Mycroft and you have just been slipping into the old patterns of last year, where you let all your worries lead you into hesitation and stop you from doing what you really want to do. Well, not any more. If Moriarty’s going to make it so that you have to decide, if you’re _really_ going to die soon, then you’re going to make love to Mycroft at least once before you do so. You swallow and get up; wiping your slightly clammy palms against your jeans, before you march over there. Mycroft looks up at you, a flicker of surprise crossing over his features when he sees your expression. 

 

“What are we doing?” you ask, putting your hands on your hips. Mycroft just looks at you, blinking, opening his mouth. “We’re letting Moriarty and the whole situation with your work experience intimidate us. It’s New Years Day and we’re sitting here, letting ourselves get caught up in our worry and being completely miserable when we should be focusing on us and our last hours together.” Mycroft swallows. But you’re not done yet. “Why did you pull away when we kissed in bed the other night?” 

 

Mycroft swallows again, looking both surprised and a little uncomfortable by your words. His hands fidget together upon his lap for a moment, before he says, “Like I said, we were in bed.” He looks down. 

 

You huff out a breath, your brow furrowing. “But _why_?” you ask. “Were you just uncomfortable or don’t you want to?”-

 

“I want to,” Mycroft interrupts, looking up at you briefly, before he looks down again. His elbows come onto the table and he runs his hands back through his hair. “I want to _so_ much,” he murmurs, letting his hands cover his face now, before he sighs into them. 

 

“Then _why_ didn't you let yourself?” you ask, taking a hesitant step forwards. “If you wanted me in that way and you’d just said or started to show me then I-I wouldn't have objected.” Mycroft’s fingers tighten upon his face. “I want you in that way too.” Mycroft slowly lowers his hands and looks at you, a trace of disbelief upon his face. You want to wipe it off and smother him in love. You swallow, making up your mind, before you move slowly around the table. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes follow you. “What are you”- he begins, breaking off when he feels your fingers gliding to his shoulders and giving them a quick massage. 

 

“Come,” you murmur, letting go if him and deciding to take the lead. You make to turn but he swings around and grabs at your wrist. 

 

“F/N,” he says, letting go of you quickly as you turn back to him, “I'm not sure if it’s a good idea”- your face falls-“Not because I'm not ready or because I don’t want to,” he says, “But because we won’t be together this time tomorrow. Won’t it just make you sad if we-if we go ahead now and then have to say goodbye tomorrow?” he asks a little desperately. 

 

You pull a bit of a face. “The point is we’re together _tonight_ ,” you say, waving a bit of a flustered hand, “And I can’t think of anything that would make me happier right now then being with you in that way.” You tangle your hand with his. 

 

You look at him and as you do you sense that the bigger issue that’s keeping him where he is right now is his own fear and inexperience. “Come,” you urge, letting go of him and turning around to make your way towards the bedroom. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst right out of your chest and your throat feels dry. You wonder if he’ll follow. Your hand’s close to reaching out towards the bedroom door when you hear a scrape of a chair and the sound of Mycroft standing up. 

 

“F/N,” he blurts out, “There’s something you should know.” Your fingers hesitate against the door, almost caressing it, before they abandon it completely. You turn back to him. He swallows profusely. His face is flushed; his eyes all wrong and anxious, his fingers wriggling. Suddenly you’re taken back to the very first day that you’d met. When he was stammering out an apology for making you feel uncomfortable at breakfast. It’s amazing to think that first there was that and now there’s this. Amazing to think how far you've come. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then opens it to say, “I-I’ve never”-

 

You go across to him. “I'm scared too,” you say, knowing that you have to take the lead here because this is all new to him, like a book that he’s never read but suddenly expected to know. You raise your hands and touch his arms gently. It’s the lightest of touches but it makes a shiver run through him. “I know I’ve had sex before.” He opens his mouth, probably about to say a million things about how Moriarty doesn’t count. You raise a finger to his lips. You hadn’t been thinking about Moriarty. Him raping you was never sex. You’d been thinking about Rufus and the quick drunken fumble that you’d soon lived to regret. You don’t want it to be like that with Mycroft. You won’t let it. He deserves more and for the first time in your life you want to make love. Your finger flicks against Mycroft’s bottom lip, tugging it down. He lets out a soft breath that brushes against the top of your hand. His pupils are already blown. You swallow, sliding your finger down his chest and releasing the top two buttons of his white shirt. You push the shirt as much as you can to each side, creating a circular expanse of skin that you press your hand to. Mycroft shivers at the feel of you. “But this is different,” you say as you feel him vibrating against you. 

 

“F/N,” he murmurs, raising his hands to your back. You can feel the warmth of them seeping through the material of your top. 

 

“I think we should undress now,” you tell him. You draw back. 

 

He nods, but when you start to move towards the bedroom he calls, “F/N?” You look back to him. “Gregory, he well, he left me some protection the last time he was here. I didn't want to say anything, but”-

 

“I know,” you interrupt, understanding that he hadn’t wanted you to feel pressurized and loving him all the more for it. 

 

He looks relieved. When you turn to finally go through to the bedroom he follows you, looking more reassured. 

 

You change into your night things quickly. Mycroft into his usual grey vest and boxer shorts and you into your pyjamas. Neither of you look at each other as you do so, but when you finally turn back to each other you see that he’s looking at you as if he’s waiting for further instruction. 

 

You swallow, before you move to pull the duvet back. Mycroft assists you, before he looks at you again. He clenches and unclenches his hands. You nod for him to sit down on the bed. He does so, his back against the headboard. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he blurts out as you begin to move towards him. 

 

“Shh,” you reassure him, straddling his waist and raising a hand so that you caress the material of his vest briefly, before you pull it up, over his head. 

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a flustered breath. Your eyes flick up and lock with his. You hold each other’s gazes for a moment. Your eyes move down. 

 

Mycroft’s chest is beautiful, covered in hair that runs from just above his collarbone right down to where it disappears underneath his boxer shorts. You inhale. His nipples are erect, perfect. You let out your breath and raise your hands. Your eyes become transfixed as you shift some of his hair with your fingers to better reveal the freckles. He’s a treasure trove and you can’t believe that he’s yours and that right now he's trusting you with himself like this. You look up. His eyes are on you. They’re still scared but they show signs of something else now like a tentative desire. His lips come to slide briefly and experimentally against yours. You exhale as he pulls away. His eyes flicker against yours calculatingly. He kisses you again. This time for longer, his hands curving around your waist, trying to feel the skin there through the material of your jacket. You pull away. His eyes latch onto yours, shining softly with concern at the thought that he might have done something wrong, before they fill with a gentle understanding when you duck your head and begin to quickly undo the buttons on your pyjama jacket. He lets out a little breath as the last one comes undone. Then he reaches a hesitant finger forwards, his eyes checking with you, before he runs it right down your middle. A jerk of breath escapes you and you arch your head back. It seems to encourage him for he shifts forwards a little, his back coming away from the headboard as he slips the pyjama jacket off your shoulders. Another little sound escapes you as your skin makes contact with the cold air. It makes Mycroft shift even closer to you, makes his hands go protectively around your shoulders, before he kisses you again. Your chests push against each other, causing both of you to become a little breathless. His hand goes around your hair, trailing through it, before he pulls back. His breath hitches in the next moment as you lean forwards to kiss him slowly, deeply. His hands, trembling slightly, go to your back. You feel them there, resting so gently at first that they’re cradling you, before they become firmer. You briefly pull away, before you kiss him again. “I'm yours, if you want me I'm yours,” you tell him, your lips close to his ear. He lets out a little sound and shivers from the vibration of your words. His head spins. 

 

“I-I”- he utters, still lost, still hesitant. 

 

“Shh, let me,” you murmur, and he nods, watching as you slowly draw back and get off the bed, taking care of your underwear fist, before you deal with his. 

 

You barely look at him; instead you reach for the condom, before your eyes flick to his. He lets out a breath when he feels your eyes on him and quickly looks back up. You realize that he’d been taking all of you in and the thought makes the knot that has slowly been growing in your stomach tighten. You try and send him the most encouraging smile that you can.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Mycroft murmurs.

 

It’s enough to encourage you to finally allow your eyes to slide down and look at him properly. He moves forwards, his hand going out towards his member. You can tell that now he’s the embarrassed one.

 

“Shh,” you brush his hand aside, before you slowly slip the condom on. 

 

He lets out a hiss of breath when your fingers curl around him. 

 

You swallow, before you join him on the bed again. “We’ll take things slow all right?” 

 

He nods, looking as apprehensive and afraid as you feel. 

 

You swallow again, before you slowly shuffle along his body until you’re in position. You look at him again, just in time to catch him swallowing visibly as he takes in the sight of you over him and your hair streaming down towards his skin. His eyes flick to yours. You keep one hand on the sheet to steady yourself as you hover above him and slowly raise the other to cup his jaw. Your thumb swipes against it in two soft motions that make his eyes close, before you slowly draw your hand back and lower yourself down upon him.

 

“Ah,” he gasps, his eyes scrunching even tighter shut, his face creasing and his fingers clawing at the sheet. 

 

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and your own face screws up a little, before you slowly move down and let him fill you up even further. You let out a bit of a cry as your body adjusts to his and his eyes instantly slam open. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he breathes, alarmed.

 

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say, blinking back a couple of tears, “It’s meant to be a bit uncomfortable at first.” He looks so torn at the fact that it makes a wheeze of laughter leave your lips. In the end, not knowing what to do he simply raises his hands and reaches towards you. You bite down at your bottom lip and nod at him encouragingly, before you grasp at his hands. Your grip on them tightens and he both steadies and supports you as you shift your position and finally take all of him in inside you. Mycroft tenses and lets out a few breathless pants of his own, before you finish adjusting. Once you’re done you just look at him for a moment with a shaky kind of relief on your face. Slowly you push your still joined hands back onto the sheet and make the first tentative roll of your hips. Mycroft’s fingers curl around your hand, tightening against them, whilst he arches up into you instinctively. You cry out. 

 

“Is that?”- he murmurs, and you nod, moving slowly again and gasping every time he comes up to meet you. 

 

When your movements get steadily quicker Mycroft lets go of one of your hands and moves his fingers up so that they can trace lightly against one of your breasts. A sharp hiss of breath leaves your mouth and you shudder to a jerky stop, your eyes half-closed as your hand goes up to push his more insistently against your skin. Slowly his fingers caress, tweak and probe fiery patterns there, sending you pushing into him even more. You cry out, before he moves upwards and presses a hot open-mouthed kiss to your lips. You whimper and tremble against him, your hands moving to cling onto his waist, whilst his tongue pries at your lips and parts them open. He lets out a little sound when your tongues meet, as if his breath is catching and crystallizing in his chest. You want him to make it again and swipe your tongue against his. His breath catches, before he pulls away. Then, with one hand cradling the side of your head and the other on your waist he moves you around so that you’re beneath him. For a minute you both just lay there, adjusting to your positions and in your case feeling like a panting, shivering mess as you take in the way that he’s looking at you so intently. You've never felt like this before. Never wanted someone to ravish you so completely. His soft breaths hit your face, tickling against your skin and creating a sandstorm of fire and light there, whilst his eyes shine with something desperate, before he moves against you. There’s nothing slow about his movements now and you find yourself gasping. Your hands press into his back and your legs wrap around him, pushing him closer. He lets out a bit of a groan against your shoulder, his hair flopping over his forehead when your hips surge upwards off the bed into his. 

 

Both of your heads are getting dizzy, yours becoming more and more filled with light as Mycroft continues to engulf you with all his love and warmth. You let out a moan. You know that you’re close and that he probably is too. But suddenly, just as you’re on the verge of letting all the light explode in front of you he stops. You let out a strangled cry of protest. 

 

 _“Wait,”_ he urges. 

 

Your whole face screws up as you try and prevent your moment of release. 

 

“I-I want”- he murmurs, his head moving down and his warm breath ghosting over your throat and collarbone as he does so. “You to feel so much love.” 

 

“I do,” you utter, your voice high and all shaky. You’re so close. Your eyes are almost shut and you have to bite down hard on the inside of your mouth just to prevent your body from rising up into his and ending all this. 

 

You feel him moving your arms in the next moment. Feel him putting them in a stop position either side of your head. 

 

“Oh God, Myc I”- you begin to protest when you don’t feel you can hold on any more, but you break off when his lips swoop down to your arms, peppering a trail of kisses against all your old bruises. 

 

As soon as you realize what he’s doing the light bursts in front of you. Suddenly you’re flying. 

 

“You’re so, so beautiful and so loved,” Mycroft whispers fervently against you, pressing more desperate kisses against your arms, before he trails off so that he can just stare at your expression. 

 

He never thought that he’d get to see such a look on your face, one where your eyes and nose scrunch up a little, before they relax into a gaze of pure bliss. Just seeing that expression and knowing that he’s helped cause it, knowing that he’s made you feel such a pure, untainted moment of joy sends him over the edge. He groans out your name in a long, elongated fashion as your body finishes its vibrations against him and his own begins to lose control and shudder against yours.

Seeing him that way sends you flying again, soaring up to new dizzying heights, before there comes silence apart from your ragged breaths and pants and everything stills. 

 

Mycroft tucks his head down by your neck for a moment, whilst your hands rub soothingly at his back and stroke his hair. 

 

“I love you,” you get out once your breathing’s calmed down a little. 

 

“And I you,” Mycroft murmurs, kissing at your neck and collarbone softly. 

 

He rolls off you in the next moment, disposing of the condom with one hand, before he returns, facing you on his side. 

 

You roll towards him, losing yourself in the blue symphony that seems to be playing in his eyes, before you fall asleep. 

 

*

 

You wake that morning to find that Mycroft’s already awake and watching you, his body protectively close, his eyes millimetres away. 

 

You remember flying. Flying through the sky with him just beneath you the whole time, ready to catch you in his arms. 

 

You've never felt as safe as you do then. Safe as you feel his warmth right beside you and safe as you see the love that radiates from his eyes as he looks at you. 

 

He shifts closer to you, nuzzling his head against yours, before he nudges your nose with his, giving you an Eskimo kiss. in the next moment his lips caress against yours softly and reassuringly. Your hand goes to the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. 

 

When he draws back from you he gives you a sad kind of smile and everything comes back to you. _Zero._ It’s the second of January. But you don’t want to see his sad smile. Don’t want to remember what day it is. You pull him into a tight hug. 

 

“F/N,” his voice murmurs falteringly. 

 

“Just a moment,” you say, your voice cracking. Your hands cling onto the skin on his back. You bury your head into his shoulder.

 

“I told you you’d feel sad,” he murmurs in a fashion that’s not unkind. But when he hears your slightly strangled gasp of acknowledgement he relents at once and holds you just as tightly as you’re holding onto him, ducking his head down. 

 

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you tell him as you pull your head back. 

 

“It won’t be for long,” he assures you, brushing a strand of your hair back. “I’ll be back at the house at Easter.”

 

You smile, trying to feel reassured. But you've got this bad feeling in your chest. It makes you wish that you could just go back to last night or even to the happy feeling you’d had when you’d first woken up. When you’d felt normal and unscarred. When Moriarty hadn’t even seemed to exist. 

 

Mycroft must feel the dip in your mood, or perhaps he can just see the unshed tears that are beginning to waver in your eyes, for he says, “No crying, not today. I forbid it F/N.”

 

You let out a watery gurgle, before you nod, kissing him quickly. 

 

You both get reluctantly out of bed in the next moment. You dress. You for going back to university so that you can continue preparing for your exams and Mycroft for his first day of work experience. 

 

Breakfast is a silent affair. 

 

Then, once you’re ready, you both go slowly outside. 

 

You turn to each other. Mycroft looks troubled and you sense that you probably do too. You try to smile at each other. Neither of you have much success. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat. “I’ll phone you tonight. I’ll see you at the weekend.” He gives you a rather stern, calculating look. You know that he’s trying to impress upon you the need to keep in close contact with him. 

 

“Good luck,” you tell him, shifting a little awkwardly because it feels like such a pointless and nonsensical thing to say when you can already tell that he’s going to do well. 

 

He nods and you kiss each other briefly, neither of your hands lingering on the other for very long. 

 

Then, just like that, you’re turning and going your separate ways. Your heart aches. 

 

*

 

“Oh F/N,” Molly says, coming out of the living room as soon as you get inside the house, “It’s good to see you, a package came for you, I left it on your bed.” You frown at that, your mind going back to the text message you’d received last night. “It’s probably from Mycroft don’t you think?” Molly asks, “Wanting to give you something that you can look at or whatever whilst he’s away.” You blush as you come out of your thought and realize what she’s said. You can’t help but think that Mycroft’s already given you something special. Molly tilts her head at you. “Are you all right?” she asks. “You seem a bit different.”

 

Your blush grows. “Erm, yeah, I”- you break off awkwardly, before you hurry upstairs. 

 

“Oh my God, F/N, did something happen last night?” Molly calls out loudly after you, stopping close to the stairs and putting a hand on the banister as she looks up them. 

 

You don’t reply. Instead you dart into your room, still blushing and grinning a little as you close the door behind you. 

 

Your expression soon falls though when you see the large rectangular package that’s on your bed. Whatever it is has been wrapped in a bin bag. The address, you notice as you go towards it, has been typed. You know realistically that it’s from Moriarty and not Mycroft, but something inside you can’t help but hope that it’s from your boyfriend all the same. 

 

You swallow. Your hands go towards it slowly and you finger at it a little, before you pick it up, take a deep breath and unwrap it properly. 

 

A little breath escapes you when you've pulled the fastenings aside enough to reveal what’s inside. 

 

It’s the blue folder. The one that Moran had been using in his sessions when he’d been pretending to be Magnussen. You remember how it hadn’t been on the coffee table that last day at the clinic. Your mouth tightens. This has clearly been planned for a while. Your hand shifts the bag aside and flips the folder open. An A4-sized piece of paper, which has a big zero scrawled across it faces you. You get it. Moriarty’s countdown has run out and this is the gift he was talking about. You have to make a choice. You swallow, sit down on the bed and flip the page over. Your brow furrows when you see that the next page is filled up with writing. In the centre and at the top lies the title Dr. Magnussen. Beneath that lies the clinic’s address. You swallow, picturing Moriarty and perhaps Moran rooting through Magnussen’s professional things after the man had been disposed of and taking pleasure from discovering things that they could use against you. It’s almost enough to make you feel sorry for Magnussen, but not quite. The man _had_ been a bastard after all. Just beneath that on the paper there’s a thin box with the words: **Final Evaluation on F/N L/N,** inside. Then a bigger box, which contains such notes. You swallow and your eyes flick up to the wall consideringly for a moment. You don’t have to read any more. You could just get rid of the folder or even burn the pages that are inside. But even as such thoughts come to you, you know that you won’t take them up. Whatever’s inside here will probably affect you, but it’s better to be effected and aware of what angle Moriarty’s taking than to just get rid of it and miss something important. It’s not just you who’s involved here after all. You look back down. 

 

 **F/N is an interesting case. When she first came to me she came across as being damaged and physically withdrawn. She recoiled from the gentle hand that I put on her shoulder as I guided her across to the armchair. She was hesitant and easily emotional too when I encouraged her to tell me about why she had sought my help. But as the sessions continued I began to see another side to her. A side that is stubborn and naïve to the point of stupidity, as she chose to stick to her own beliefs rather than dare admit that she might be wrong. She has few friends but she seems to have formed and developed an unhealthy emotional attachment to a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. She refuses to listen to reason when I suggest that he might be controlling her. She won’t hear a word against this man, and I believe that it will see her, perhaps see them both, into trouble.**

 

 **Her stubborn personality and refusal to properly confront and deal with what she has been through, along with her feeble attempts to follow my suggestions, make her a troubling case.**

 

 **It was only in our first January session however that I truly realized just how all the troubling aspects of her personality had combined and how much I had misread her.**

 

**In that session when she walked in I could tell that something was wrong straight away. She-motivated I thought at the time by Mr. Mycroft Holmes-told me that she no longer wished to continue her sessions. I commented, that, that was a shame and asked if there was any particular reason. She got herself into a bit of a state. I told her that she should calm herself down. I reminded her that with more time and a proper application of my methods she would see the end result that she seemed so impatient to get to. She was beside herself, barely able to take the words in. She got to her feet and in the next moment, before I could do anything more than get onto mine, Mr. Mycroft Holmes along with two other men-one who later turned out to be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft’s brother, and the other a Mr. Gregory Lestrade, a friend of theirs-had burst into the room. F/N accused me of touching her. I swore that I had never done such a thing, but her words were enough to rile the three men up. Mr. Mycroft Holmes in particular seemed very hostile. He picked up the umbrella that was leaning against the wall and waved it at me.**

 

 **It was then, in that moment, that I realized it is not he who is controlling her, but she who is controlling him.**

 

 **I concluded that day she is a maelstrom. Sucking the few kind souls who dare try and help her in, before she spits them back out again, beyond recognition to their former selves.**

 

 **Her name should be Mary Shelley, not F/N L/N. She has created a monster.**

 

You swallow. Then you move on. The next page is blank aside from bold, black lettering in the middle, which declares: **You did this.** The bottom of each letter drips downward, like blood running along someone's bleeding arm. 

 

You turn the page. 

 

 _Once upon a time there was a boy. A boy who loved to read and learn. A boy who was aware of the darker side of life-how could he not be when all the other children seemed to think he and his brother strange?-but who was largely protected from it._

 

Underneath such writing there’s a photograph of a young Mycroft as he stands by a small bicycle. He holds it steady as he looks around at where his brother’s standing close by. The dark curls are messy upon Sherlock’s head as he clutches at a teddy bear with one hand and bawls to try and get his mother’s attention. 

 

Your heart jolts when you see it and realize that Moriarty-or someone close to him-have not just been planting bugs or cameras inside Holmes cottage, but actually been rooting around and taking things out of it. The thought of people you care for being subjected to such intrusion makes your hands shake and your insides boil with rage as you turn the page. 

 

 _However, a distinct change was brought into this boy’s life when he went to university. There, amongst the people he’d be sharing a house with was you F/N._

 

 _But you were hiding a secret, weren't you? You’d kept it to yourself for so long that you didn't want anyone else to know about it._

 

 _The boy wanted to know though didn't he? He pushed and pushed and got increasingly upset when you wouldn't tell him._

 

You look up for a moment as the painful memories of that year swirl inside you. You take a little breath and swallow, before you look back down. 

 

 _Finally he found out, but he’d had to sacrifice something of the young boy he used to be to do so, hadn’t he?_

 

 _No longer content just to take a back seat, read and focus on his studies he’d become more involved than he’d ever wanted to be in someone’s life. Your life F/N._

 

Moriarty goes on and on like this, re-capping all your time at university and the amount of emotional upheaval that you've put Mycroft through.

 

You realize as you read through it that whilst last year had been about trying to break you and seeing if you’d crack, this year’s all about putting you on trial, making you account for the person you are-lazy, manipulative and controlling according to what you've read-and for the affect you have on others. But it’s the words on the last page, before there comes something different that lingers in your mind the most after you've read it. 

 

 _SH: I don’t want to be a pirate any more._  
_MH: No, I don’t suppose you do._

 

You hadn’t been privy to that conversation. You don’t know when it had happened, but you sense that it’s a recent one and that above everything else hits you and makes you realize the transition that both Sherlock and Mycroft have been through during the time you've known them. You look up. Your mind goes back to the photo on the first page and to those you’d seen going up alongside the stairs in the town house. Mycroft and Sherlock start off young in your mind. Then they spurt up and up until they become who they are now. They’re not children any more. Neither are you.

 

On the next page there appears to be some kind of transcript. As you read through it and the others that follow your hands tighten a little bit around the paper. It appears that you’re not the only one who’s been hiding things. Appears that ever since that day in the clinic Mycroft and Sherlock have been working behind the scenes-like an anti-virus on a computer-to try and protect you. Appears that Sherlock had his first text message the same night you had yours and gone to his big brother for advice. Appears that Mycroft was the one who suspected that you’d probably be receiving messages off Moriarty and who told Sherlock to eventually go and have the conversation that he had, had with you. Told Sherlock to get you to forward everything to him. You feel a bit of hope about the way that they've been so on top of things this whole time, about the way that they've been keeping an eye on Moriarty. But you also feel a crushing sense of guilt, because not only should they have never felt the need to do what they've been doing in the first place, but now that it turns out that Moriarty’s known exactly what they've been doing this whole time you can’t help but get the sense that they've put themselves in even more danger because of you. 

 

You frown. You can’t cope with this any more. Can't cope with putting the people you love so much at risk. The way you see it you have to do something and act before Moriarty takes a swipe at either Mycroft or Sherlock. No matter what the consequences.

 

A knock comes on your door. You jump. 

 

“F/N it’s me, can I come in?” Molly’s voice filters through. 

 

You throw both the folder and its wrappings quickly under your bed. “Er yeah, sure,” you say, straightening up again. 

 

Molly enters smiling obliviously. “Was it from Mycroft?” she asks. You start a little. You’d almost forgotten about her earlier thoughts. 

 

“Yeah um…” you trail off. 

 

“But it’s private?” she guesses, coming forwards. 

 

Your heart gives a little lurch. You nod. 

 

“Just like last night was?” she asks knowingly.

 

You look down and fidget with your hands a little. You swallow. “Yeah,” you admit as you look back up at her. 

 

“It was all right though?” she checks. 

 

“Yeah, it was,” you say, forcing a bit of a smile at her as your hand wanders through your hair of its own accord. Then, feeling like you could really do with a moment, or several, just by yourself to think, you say, “Erm, I was gong to revise, so…”

 

“Oh,” Molly starts, before she rights herself, “Oh, of course.” She shifts her position, “I just came because I wanted to see if you’d like to go to a self-defence class with me?” You look at her. “There’s one every Monday night, starting from next week, at the university. I just thought, what with Mycroft gone you’ll probably be missing him, so if you wanted to do something with a friend…I was also thinking that it might be a good idea generally…you know, what with”- she breaks off awkwardly. 

 

“He’s not Voldemort Molly,” you say a little huffily, definitely not wanting to afford Moriarty that respect. 

 

“I know,” she nods, before she takes a bit of a deep breath and goes on, “You've got to remember that it hurt me too though. Finding out about everything and knowing that I’d let him be with me like that. I'm not blaming you or anything, it just, it just… _hurt_ , and now he’s back…”

 

You bow your head. “I know it did. I'm sorry.”

 

She swallows. “So will you come?” 

 

You think about it all for a moment. You can’t see what good self-defence would be on Moriarty. He’s far too clever. But at the same time you can’t see what harm it could do either. You look back up at her and nod. 

 

As soon as she goes you get the folder out from underneath your bed again and flip through it quickly. 

 

It’s odd, but as you’d been talking to Molly it’s like your mind had been working on figuring out what you needed to do, and now, as the decision solidifies inside you, you let out a little breath. Then you push the folder further down your bed and pull out your phone. 

 

 _What would be the price for you to leave me alone?_ You text Moriarty. 

 

 _You know the price. Your life._ Moriarty texts back. 

 

 _I thought fate would take care of that?_ You return cautiously. 

 

You can almost hear him chuckling. _But why should I take the risk?_ Moriarty replies. _Especially when its already been so good to me._

 

_What do you mean?_

 

 _I meant that fate already made sure you ended up with Magnussen, oops Moran. I was worried about that I admit. I knew after all that you’d end up seeking help, albeit reluctantly_ -something bristles inside you at that- _how could I not with the people you hang around? But, despite Magnussen’s reputation, you could have quite easily ended up somewhere else. Oh, I would have pushed you to him eventually of course, one way or another, but I can’t help feel glad for fate and Mummy Holmes…_

 

 _Leave her out of this,_ you send back, feeling angry. Then, desperate to get the matter back to you and away from those you love, you add, _Why are you doing this? Why’s it so important to you that I die?_

 

You wait five minutes, but still you don’t get an answer. _Fine. Don’t answer me._

 

 _I’ll answer you if you come to the swimming pool._

 

You let out a little breath. _When?_

 

 _Now._

 

_So that you can talk me into drowning myself?_

 

_No. If you decide to die today then it’ll be your own decision. But I think it’s about time we had a little talk. Don’t you?_

 

You hesitate. You know that deep down going along with what he wants right now is probably the right thing to do, especially when it means that you’ll be able to intervene, before he can get to either Sherlock or Mycroft. But at the same time facing him again isn't something you desire. Finally you text: _I’ll be there._

 

 _Make sure to bring your folder with you,_ Moriarty replies. 

 

You sigh again. This could be a trap, but at least you know. You put your phone aside, change into something warmer and let out a little breath as you look at yourself in the mirror. You look a little pale and something trembles inside you as you think about and try to anticipate what might be to come, but you’re ready. As ready as you can be anyway. You turn away, swallow and slip your phone into your pocket. Then you eye the folder, before you empty the bag that you’d usually take with you and slip the folder inside there instead. You wonder if you should take some sort of weapon with you. You look around. The only things that you have in your room that could be mildly dangerous are all your large, heavy textbooks. You can’t imagine lugging them all up to campus and chucking them at Moriarty. You chew at the inside of your mouth, feeling a little stupid and like maybe you _do_ really need self-defence classes, before you swallow again and head downstairs. 

 

“Popping out?” Molly asks, coming out from the kitchen now with a dishcloth in her hand. 

 

“Yeah,” you say as you make it to the bottom of the stairs, “To the library,” you say as convincingly as you can when you turn to look back at her. 

 

She nods. Not wanting to hesitate too long just in case she decides to come with you, you hurry out. 

 

The air’s cool as you step outside and the breeze toys with your hair as you walk quickly up to the university. 

 

You stuff your hands in your pockets as you go, trying to fight the temptation as one of them curls around your phone to text Sherlock and come clean about what you’re doing. You feel an urge to text Mycroft too. Not to tell him about what’s going on-that would defeat the whole object-but just to tell him that you love him. Somehow you don’t. Somehow your legs just keep moving.

 

The campus is quiet. A lot of people haven’t come back from the holiday yet. You swallow and keep going, trying not to think too much as you move down towards the building that houses the swimming pool. 

 

It’s even quieter there, and as you walk around its exterior it’s eerily so. There’s no sign of Moriarty. You swallow, feeling uneasy. You wonder if he’s inside, just as he was at the end of your first year. You shift and make your way to the door. You've just pulled the old, creaking thing open when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You start and let the door clang shut again. 

 

 _I'm on the roof_ , the text from Moriarty says. You find that your free hand curls instinctively around the key to the house that you’d been carrying inside your other pocket as you read it. You tug it out, whilst you put your phone back and stare at it thoughtfully. Then your hand puts it automatically back inside of your pocket, before your body takes you across towards the small ladder that leads up onto the roof. You’re almost certain now that this is a trap. You know too that you should get the hell out of there. But for some reason you begin to climb up towards the roof, your legs trembling as you do so. 

 

You let out a breath once you reach the top, not because of your exertion, but because as you peek your head over the side of the roof you see that Moriarty’s not alone. 

 

 _“Sherlock,”_ you breathe, as you clamber into a standing position. Though you feel both surprised and a sinking sensation in your heart because Moriarty’s got to him, when you see him standing close to the other side of the roof, facing you as he holds his hands in the air, you feel oddly relieved too. For at least you’re not alone.

 

“Always nice to have at least one jury member at a trial,” Moriarty says, nodding his head at Sherlock now from where he stands to the side of you both. He’s armed with a revolver, but he lowers it as he shifts in front of Sherlock and turns the gun on you. 

 

You expect something to happen then. Expect Sherlock to perhaps lunge forwards, grab Moriarty around the neck and tug the gun off him. But to your surprise Sherlock just stands there. Something about the way he just lowers his hands and does nothing makes you feel uncomfortable. 

 

“Do you have the evidence?” Moriarty drawls, distracting you in the next moment. You look at him. He nods at your bag. 

 

A huff of breath leaves your mouth and you nod, pulling the folder out. 

 

When you look up Moriarty gestures for you to throw it at him. You do so. He catches it easily and his eyes glitter as they look back at you. “Now you've seen the evidence for the prosecution do you have anything to say in your defence?” he asks. Your lips tighten as you frown at him. You’re not going to play his game. _“Nothing?”_ Moriarty smirks. Again you just frown. “How’s it feel F/N?” he asks, “Knowing the impact you've had? Knowing that you've helped develop a side of these men that might have stayed reduced had it not been for your interference?” Your eyes flick to Sherlock a little worriedly, whilst something squirms inside your chest. You expect to see raised eyebrows and a questioning expression on the youngest Holmes brother’s face, but there’s just something blank and impenetrable there instead. Again you feel uneasy. You wonder what Sherlock and Moriarty had discussed, before you’d arrived. Does Sherlock already know about the light Moriarty’s showing you in? “Nothing?” Moriarty pushes you, clearly enjoying himself, “You’re really not very good at this conversation thing are you?” he says as he leans back on his heels. 

 

“I’d be better if you just stopped playing games for once and talked to me properly,” you tell him coolly. 

 

He grins, “ _Knew_ we’d get there.” He turns around and takes a couple of steps towards Sherlock. He bows his head and pushes a couple of fingers against his ear as if he’s got a device there or something, but you can’t see anything. Your eyes go from him to Sherlock. He’s watching Moriarty carefully, but again not making to do anything. You try and send him a bit of a pleading look, but he doesn’t even look at you to see it. Your stomach churns. You get the distinct impression that-“Oh, what’s that?” Moriarty questions as he faces you again, “Well, that _is_ interesting news.” You eye him suspiciously. You can tell that though he’s pretending to have just found out about something for the first time he’s actually known about it for a while. He turns to Sherlock. “You’ll have to sit this one out I'm afraid. We can’t exactly have you as a jury member when you've been helping compile the evidence for the prosecution now can we?” A shuddery breath leaves your mouth as you begin to take in this revelation, and even when it’s out your lips stay parted. “Of course I know this, being the judge and all,” Moriarty adds. 

 

Sherlock lets out a little breath and ducks his head, before finally he looks up at you. “I'm sorry,” he says, his voice on the verge of shaking and his hair blowing softly in the breeze as he looks at you. All the relief that you’d originally felt upon seeing him dies inside you. 

 

You swallow, every inch of your body feeling painfully alive as you struggle to digest what now must be the truth. Your eyes flick back to Moriarty. 

 

“Oh dear, dear,” he says, “You don’t actually believe that I’ve been doing everything that I have without some inside help do you?”

 

His words make you feel like you've been punched in the stomach. You look back to Sherlock. Suddenly you realize that you should have never come here. Realize that you should have waited a little longer and shown Mycroft the folder that weekend because he would have seen what was going on where you hadn’t and realized what Sherlock must have done. Now however it’s too late. Now you’re standing here and you couldn't be further away from being in control if you tried. Now it turns out that _Sherlock’s_ the one on trial. 

 

“After the day in the clinic”- Sherlock blurts out. 

 

“I texted him, just like I texted you,” Moriarty says, “Only _he_ texted back”-

 

 _“You”-_ you breathe out, without even knowing where your sentence is going as your head turns from Moriarty to Sherlock. But suddenly things click into place and you realize how stupid you've been. Realize that Sherlock must have been the one who passed Moriarty the photo that had been included in the folder. No one else would have had to sneak into the cottage after all. That’s one of the things that oddly hurts you the most. That image of Sherlock taking a photo of such innocence and almost defiling it by passing it on to someone who can be so dark and cruel. But then you realize something- “You told him about Mycroft’s work experience didn't you? And about your mother’s secret!” you say angrily, clenching your fists, “You did that to your own family! All this time I’ve been trusting you and so have they, how”-

 

“I'm sorry F/N,” Sherlock says, waving his hands now and looking desperate, “At first I-I thought it made sense. I thought Moriarty might slip up if I texted back, that he might reveal something, but”-

 

“He was jealous, he saw an opportunity and got carried away,” Moriarty replies and you look at him, “For far too long he’s had to stand in Mycroft’s shadow. Had to put up with everyone thinking that his big brother’s much cleverer because he’s the one who does everything first. But then, because of me texting him, suddenly he saw a chance to be the first one to do something. So, despite his brother’s wishes, he replied and started asking me questions. I shot him down at first; I suspected that he was still under his brother’s influence. But slowly an understanding began to develop and he started to open up to me. He started to realize that we weren't that different after all. I started to test him, ask him to do little things for me, or to reveal something interesting. Thinking that he was still in control and bloated up by my attention he begun to get careless. He started to forget why he’d actually begun to talk to me in the first place. But now, here on this day, he’s actually having to face you and I think the biggest thing he’s realized is”- 

 

“I can’t save you,” Sherlock blurts out, and your breath quivers as you look at him. “I'm sorry, but he distracted me. I _let_ him distract me,” Sherlock adds bitterly, before he goes on, “I haven’t figured out a way and it’s too late.”

 

You swallow and your mind tries to scramble for any piece of hope it can find. “But”-

 

“The only way out is his way,” Sherlock says, nodding at Moriarty, “We have to die. Today. Together.”

 

Your body feels cold, goosebumps prickle at your skin and your mind feels like it’s already in free fall. You take some deep breaths. Thankful that neither Moriarty nor Sherlock are choosing to speak. You stare hard at Sherlock and slowly your mind begins to clear. For as you look into those blue eyes the reality of his foolishness is still firmly in your mind, but you know what you have to do. Know what you _must_ do. “Why Sherlock?” you ask, turning to Moriarty and you hear Sherlock letting out a little breath. Moriarty raises an eyebrow. “Why does he have to die? Like you said before this is about you and me.” You pause and brace yourself. You know that if you go ahead and say what you must then there’ll be no going back. Still you step forwards and turn so that you’re facing Moriarty, the dreams of your future vanishing as you do so. “So, with that in mind,” you say levelly as you meet each other’s eyes. “I’ll do you a deal James.” You hold out a hand. Moriarty’s lips quirk upward at what you just called him. You haven’t called him that in so long. “I’ll die”- Sherlock lets out a breath-“If you let Sherlock go. I'm not going to ask you never to harm or bother either him or Mycroft again. I know that’s beyond you. But I _am_ , going to ask you to answer the question you refused to answer by text earlier.”

 

Sherlock looks in between you both, his lips parted. 

 

Moriarty eyes you for a moment. He smirks. “You want to know why I need you to die so much?” 

 

You swallow and nod. “At the end of the day, no matter what’s happened between us, I'm just me. I'm not a threat to you. I'm no one important”-

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” comes a familiar voice. 

 

You whirl around. Mycroft straightens up from where he’s just clambered onto the roof. His hair blows in the breeze and he gives you a grim smile. 

 

“Mycroft,” you breathe. 

 

“You've always been wrong about that,” he says. You frown at him. His eyes are looking at you meaningfully, but you don’t have a clue what he’s getting at or what he’s doing here. “That’s something else I picked up on the very first day we met and all the days I’ve known you since-you have no idea of how special you are, no _clue_ of your own worth”-

 

“As touching as this is,” Moriarty interrupts, as he shares a look of revulsion with Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft steps forwards and looks at him. “If you've got no objection then let me answer F/N’s question. You owe us that much at least.” Moriarty nods as something trembles inside you at your boyfriend’s words. Mycroft nods and looks back at you. “The truth is, he can’t let you live because of what you’re capable of doing.” Your brow furrows. You’re completely lost. He’s acting like you've got some kind of superpowers or something, but you haven’t. You’re just _you._ The only parts of your life that are extraordinary are because of other people. “With the knowledge you have of him you could bring an entire criminal network to its knees”-your eyes widen-“It might be a network that’s only starting to get off the ground, but the more people that Moriarty knows, the higher the chance of betrayal. He can’t take the risk of someone going to you and finding out what could destroy him. Granted, the three of us working together against Moran last year didn't go well, but he knows that next time we won’t make the same mistakes. You fought harder than he expected. He can see that you’re growing stronger all the while, and he knows all too well that it could be fatal to him if he lets you reach your potential”-

 

“I have to die today because I'm fighting so hard against it?” you interrupt, finding the whole thing very ironic. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head sadly. “No F/N,” he says softly. The tone of his voice makes you shiver. He shifts his position and looks around as if he’s searching for the best way to phrase what he wants to say, before his eyes go back to you. He swallows. “Do you remember what you asked me on the train when I was bringing you back from Brighton that first time?” You chew at your lip. “You asked me if you thought that you would have turned bad if Moriarty and you had never ended your association with each other. Well, the truth is, _you’re_ the only one who could ever be a proper rival to him. That’s why you have to die.”

 

You splutter out a staggered breath. “But I don’t want to be a rival to him. I have no interest in being a criminal. I just want an _ordinary_ life!” You turn to Moriarty. “Is that what this is about? Because if all I have to do is swear to you that I don’t want to run a criminal organization for you to leave us alone then I’ll do it. You can even come around and threaten me once a year so that I don’t break it. You can pick a date. Go on, choose one!” you cry, starting to get hysterical. 

 

“It won’t be enough,” Sherlock says. “You might not start a criminal organization, that’s true, but if you keep getting stronger then there might come a time when you want revenge, when helping someone get rid of Moriarty for good might sound appealing to you.” 

 

“You can shut up,” you say, rounding on him. “You've done enough damage.” It’s only when you finish that you realize something and your breath catches a little in your throat. Mycroft doesn’t know about Sherlock’s betrayal. Your eyes slide to him. He’s looking in between Sherlock and you tentatively, his lips slightly parted. You can see the photo of a young Mycroft holding his baby brother in your mind. Something suddenly wavers in Mycroft’s eyes. Your breath comes out in gasps and you feel like you’re moments away from having tears stream down your face. How are you supposed to talk when what you’re about to say is the worst thing you possibly could? How are you supposed to tell Mycroft that despite his best efforts and everything he’s done for Sherlock throughout the years he’s failed? Failed to stop Sherlock’s darker tendencies from breaking out? 

 

In the end you don’t have to. Mycroft must see it in your eyes. For his head swings around to his brother and he lets out a little, _“No.”_ The sound of it breaks your heart. 

 

“How does it feel to know that your own brother’s been feeding the man you hate the most information?” Moriarty asks, stepping out so that he’s covering Mycroft with the gun, before he tosses him the blue folder. 

 

Mycroft catches it and just looks at it for a moment. Then, as a sigh of breath escapes him, he opens it and begins to flip through it. You hold your breath as he does so, hardly daring to imagine what must be going through his head in that moment. Mycroft looks up wearily from the folder a few minutes later. 

 

“You've been very thorough,” he breathes, tossing the folder onto the roof defeatedly, “And Sherlock’s been very stupid.” 

 

“Stupid enough for you to allow me to put a bullet inside you?” Moriarty’s eyes glitter with something dangerous. He raises the gun, holding it with both hands this time, one on the trigger and one steadying it as he levels it with Mycroft’s head. 

 

You feel like you’re barely breathing. 

 

“You've said it yourself,” Mycroft murmurs, “It’s not me who you want to die.”

 

You let out a little breath as they both look at you. Mycroft’s words feel like another blow to the stomach and a second betrayal. _“No…”_ you utter. 

 

“I'm sorry F/N,” Mycroft says; trying to be matter-of-fact as he looks at you, and you shake your head because you don’t want him to speak, but most of all you don’t want to hear this. “I love you,” his voice cracks, “You _know_ I do. I’ve been trying to keep you safe all year, and all the time before that”- you’re crying now-“I wouldn't have done that if I didn't care for you, but I-I, even with what Sherlock’s done”- he says with some increased strength in his voice, before he breaks off and his eyes, all ashamed and guilty, go back to his brother. 

 

You swallow. Suddenly you understand that no matter what Mycroft's said to you in the past about you feeling like family, when it comes down to it you're not. 

 

“How does it feel F/N?” Moriarty croons, stepping towards you, before he encircles you. “To be betrayed by both men who you'd thought would always be there for you? To know that even though you've come here today in an attempt to make their lives easier, in an attempt to keep them both _safe_ ”- Moriarty puts one hand dramatically to his forehead as he comes to stand before you-“That they aren't prepared to go to the same lengths for you?” he shakes his head sadly, “To finally have it out there in black and white that to Mycroft, you’re not, and will _never_ be, as important as his darling baby brother is to him?”

 

You swallow and look at Mycroft. There’s no malice in your gaze. Instead there’s just understanding. How can there be anything but when as you look into his blue eyes you see the stream of photographs that had been placed by the town house stairs? When you see a whole lifetime of memories between him and his brother inside them? _“Good,”_ you breathe out, your gaze going back to Moriarty, “It feels good.” Something flickers in those cunning brown eyes. Mycroft’s blue eyes latch onto yours curiously and Sherlock appears to be holding his breath. You take a step forwards. Moriarty raises the gun, holding it level with your head. “It feels so good in fact that I want to make a revised offer to you,” you tell him a little breathlessly. 

 

Moriarty’s eyebrow quirks up. “I'm listening,” he purrs. Mycroft shifts his position. 

 

“I’ll do what you want. I’ll die today.” You pause deliberately. “But you’re to let Mycroft and Sherlock off this roof and let them live. Do we have a deal?” you extend your hand.

 

Moriarty looks at you for a moment. His eyes go in between yours and your hand. A slow smile creeps over his face. It makes you shiver but you hold your ground, your feet even shifting forwards a little. He lowers the gun with a deliberate slowness and a little breath escapes you. His other hand reaches to come to grasp at yours. It feels cold and slightly slimy. You’re grateful when he lets go of you and nods. 

 

You let out a little breath of relief as your gaze goes past both Mycroft and Sherlock to the edge of the roof. Your heart starts pounding. You walk towards it, apprehensive but not exactly fearful. Your mind can’t focus on images of the future, not even the past or what your death will do to everyone you know. _Especially_ Mycroft, who will probably find a way to blame himself for all this. All you can focus on is the present and what you need to do right now. What you _must_ do to keep both Mycroft and Sherlock safe. What you’d do a hundred times over for them if you had to despite everything that’s occurred. You come to a stop right by the edge. You let out a little breath and turn around. You feel cold all over. But it’s only when your eyes fix on Mycroft that both your body and mind suddenly seem to become fully aware of what you’re about to do. You begin to shake from head to foot; your teeth chatter and tears spark in your eyes. “I love you,” you choke out. 

 

Mycroft looks from you to Moriarty with something desperate in his eyes. He looks back to you. “Sorry,” he says, in this voice that’s all hollow and wrong. You just shake your head because you think that he’s simply sorry that he can’t find a way out of this. _‘It’s not your fault,’_ you mouth, because if he starts to crumble and fall apart right now then you won’t be able to do this. “But I have to break the deal you've just made,” Mycroft goes on. Your breath comes out in a wheeze. You don’t understand. He comes over and takes your hand tightly in his as he turns to face Moriarty. “If you’re going to die then it won’t be alone,” he tells you. 

 

Your head jerks up. _“No,”_ you say, trying to tug your hand away, but he won’t let go of you. “No, you can’t! You can’t do this! You’re important!”

 

“And you’re not?” Mycroft asks, stubbornly keeping hold of your hand as he quirks an eyebrow up at you. 

 

You gaze into his blue eyes, your heart trembling and afraid. Suddenly, in that moment, you realize that this is more than him just trying to make up for his choice, this is him showing just how far he’s prepared to go for you. Sherlock walks across and stands beside you, taking your other hand in his. You realize that he’s sorry too, realize how far they’re _both_ prepared to go for you. But it’s too late. You don’t want them to do that for you now. “You've got the possibility of a job,” you say, turning back to Mycroft a little desperately, “A future, _happiness_. You’re both going to be so happy,” you say, looking back at Sherlock. Their hands just tighten on yours. You feel so frustrated with them, but like at the same time you just want to hold them and never let them go. “Don’t you get it?” you ask, “I'm dying today because I have to, because I understand and because I want to give you both a second chance with each other. I want something _good_ to come out of it. But if you both die too”- 

 

“Don’t try and persuade them otherwise F/N,” Moriarty says, stepping forwards, “The thought of you all dying today makes me feel light”-

 

 _“High?”_ Sherlock suggests. 

 

Moriarty nods. 

 

“I wonder how long you’d continue to feel that way though?” Mycroft muses, before he goes on, “The thought of a world that we’re not in, well”-

 

“It would be completely boring wouldn't it?” Sherlock finishes, and you feel a sudden spark of hope swirl inside you. 

 

“There are other people,” Moriarty says, trying to be all casual and indifferent about it now as he examines the fingernails on his free hand. 

 

“Not people like us,” Sherlock counters, “People who you've had so much fun playing with. People who you could have so much fun playing with again in the future if you just let us all go.” Moriarty eyes him. You can tell that he’s considering Sherlock’s words carefully. “You should be thanking F/N,” Sherlock tells him, “Not trying to convince her to take her own life. If it weren't for her your mind wouldn't have been half as occupied. She’s enriched you.”

 

“That’s somewhat true,” Moriarty acknowledges, “But only somewhat.” He raises the gun, levelling it with your face. “I’ll give you a moment, to say goodbye and all F/N honey, but _only_ a moment.”

 

Mycroft and Sherlock’s hands tighten around yours. You look at them, not knowing what to say. You can’t believe that its really come to this. 

 

“It’s okay,” Mycroft reassures you when you look at him. 

 

You shake your head. Your mind’s too numb with shock to think properly, but you know that it’s not okay. Your head spins. 

 

“I love you,” Mycroft says. You can’t even say it back. Your mouth just opens and shuts helplessly. He shrugs his shoulders a bit, readying himself as his eyes lock with Moriarty’s. Then he looks around you at Sherlock. “Brother,” he acknowledges. Sherlock nods. _“F/N,”_ Mycroft says more softly, squeezing at your hand a little as he looks at you. 

 

The only thing that leaves your mouth is a fluttery breath. 

 

Slowly you all shuffle around so that you’re now facing the edge and oblivion. Your body starts to shake again, and it’s only then that you realize at some point it must have stopped. Mycroft and Sherlock keep hold of your hands. 

 

“From three?” Sherlock suggests. 

 

Mycroft nods. 

 

You close your eyes. 

 

“Three”- Mycroft’s grip tightens on your hand-“Two”-you swallow- _“One,”_ Sherlock says. Your eyes slam open, before you open your mouth wide and fill up your lungs with air. You make to step off, but Mycroft’s hand jerks you back, before his other goes protectively around your stomach, pushing you back. “Not today,” he murmurs softly in your ear. Your heart skips a beat, and as you look at him you feel both exhilarated and afraid. Sherlock lets go of you and Mycroft turns you around. _“Look,”_ he says. 

 

Moriarty’s gone. Your breath leaves you and tears begin to spill over the rim of your eyes. “I-I don’t understand,” you splutter. 

 

“He just wanted to see if we would,” Sherlock reveals softly, “If _you_ in particular would. He was checking, when it came down to it, how far we’d be willing to go for one another, but he never really wanted any of us to die. He enjoys our company far too much.”

 

You let out a little watery gasp. Then they’re all around you, supporting your back with their hands, whilst they duck their heads down either side of yours. You put one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other on Mycroft’s, using them both for support. They’re warmth and love and protection and light and you just let that light fill you up. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft says, “So, _so_ sorry that you had to go through all that.” His voice is so fervent that it makes you take a step back so that you can look at him properly. 

 

“I never betrayed you,” Sherlock says in the next moment, his voice firm and honest as your eyes go to him.

 

“All this year,” Mycroft says, scrubbing a hand over his face and something that comes from inside your heart surges up right out of you and goes across to him, wanting to comfort him and fill him up with your own light, “All this year we've been trying to make Moriarty think that he was in control”-

 

“I texted him back because it was a decision that Mycroft and I made together,” Sherlock tells you, “Not because I was jealous or anything like that, that was just the angle we decided on”-

 

“We decided, after that day in the clinic and knowing what Moriarty’s ultimate intentions were, knowing that he wanted-wanted you dead, and knowing _why_ that might be the case,” Mycroft goes on a little hesitantly, “That the best thing we could do, to try and draw him out as quickly as we could, was to make him think that he was in control. We felt that if we really made him feel like he had the upper-hand against us then it would bring things to a swifter conclusion.”

 

“So,” Sherlock says, taking up the strand, “We decided that the best way to make him feel like that would be to make it look as if I’d done the ultimate betrayal.”

 

“We drip fed him information all year, choosing to give him enough real information to satisfy him, whilst we withheld what was really going on. We chose the photo for the folder and Sherlock made it look as if he’d become quite dependant on the man’s messages, whilst keeping up a normal appearance for John, who he didn't want to be involved.”

 

“Does that mean?”- You begin to ask. 

 

Mycroft nods. “Molly was the one who texted Sherlock about you leaving the flat earlier. He received a text, just as we had expected might occur, from Moriarty, inviting him to join him. Upon receiving word from my brother I hurried into a position where I’d be able to see the building, keeping away from people who were obviously Moriarty’s look-outs as I did so. I saw you arrive and then I waited until I could take no more, before I revealed my presence”-

 

 _“But”-_ you struggle, as one thing in particular fails to make sense to you. 

 

“You’re wondering about my work experience?” Mycroft asks. You nod. “We fed both Moriarty and you the wrong information. It starts not today but next Monday. We were aware that Moriarty would probably act as soon as I was out of the picture, so by feeding him a false date we were in a position where I could still be around. Of course it was still a risk, I was still worried that perhaps he’d wait a while”-

 

“So when you left the flat this morning?”-

 

“I merely walked around the block a couple of times to give you a chance to make your way back here, before I returned here also,” Mycroft informs you. 

 

You let out a little breath, your head spinning with all the information you've just been given. Finally you state, “I'm guessing that you kept me out of it all for my own protection?” 

 

He nods and then he huffs out a breath. “Yes, we knew that what with Moriarty sending you messages you might unintentionally snap or reveal something if you were in on it. It was difficult though, hiding it all from you. I was worried that you might come out with the fact that Moriarty was contacting you when I pushed you a little over the Christmas holidays. Sherlock was annoyed at me doing so, but I felt that you might start to suspect something if I didn't mention the fact you’d been quieter of late. The balance was a hard one to keep, but in the end we knew that it would work far better if you truly believed that you’d been betrayed and showed that you were still willing to die for us.” 

 

“Did you ever have any doubts that I would?” you ask.

 

He looks a little embarrassed. “I had _some_ reservations,” he confesses.

 

“The biggest one being that he didn't want you to have to go through all that in the first place,” Sherlock supplies. “Even though I kept telling him that it was the only way and the only thing that made sense, to go right to the edge, show Moriarty how mad we all are and then try and come back from it again.”

 

“But,” Mycroft says, stepping forwards and toying at your hair, “That first day at the town house, when I saw how you were with the photos on the stairs I realized that you would, that there was no _way_ you wouldn't, and all my doubts faded”-

 

“That’s why you kissed me like that,” you breathe. 

 

He steps back, looking a little uncomfortable. “Yes, but then it rather, well, it rather brought up more pleasant complications. Complications that I hadn’t quite anticipated so soon,” he admits, looking at you rather bashfully for a moment, before he ducks his head down. Your heart flips over for another reason than fear. Sherlock pulls a face. Mycroft clears his throat. “There was another reason I didn't want to tell you too,” he says as he looks back up at you. 

 

 _“Oh?”_ you comment curiously. 

 

The blush on Mycroft’s face just grows, but he steps towards you nonetheless, looking determined. “After what you said after the day in the clinic, I was-I was so _proud_ of the way you’d picked yourself up and decided what you wanted for your future, that I-I couldn't bear the idea of weighing you down with all the planning and everything that it would involve. I just wanted you to have a better year, you deserved that.”

 

You swallow. Your whole body feels a lot warmer, but at the same time you’re not quite sure what to say. Finally you settle on, “So what now? Moriarty might be gone, but he’ll probably come back.”

 

This time it’s Mycroft who’s not ready to let go of the future. “He probably will,” he says, “But until then I’d say we hope, follow your advice and live our lives the best we can.”

 

You smile. Suddenly you can see the future again.

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting the fifth and final part of this series titled The Woman Who Wanted to be Ordinary as soon as possible. More than likely within the next three weeks sometime to give you a rough estimate! So I hope you will join me then. :)


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